


A Ritual to Read to Each Other

by weeesi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, Brief reference to Jolto if you squint, Character Death (Not John or Sherlock), Courtroom Drama, Descriptions of Injury, F/M, Flashbacks/Memories, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Implied Mystrade, Infidelity, John Deals with Feelings, John and Sherlock on holiday, John has nightmares, John isn't over his Reichenbach Feels, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Mary lies a lot about things, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mycroft Being Mycroft, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Partially nonlinear narration, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock is a Saint, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Shower Sex, They're Really in Love, descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:37:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 101,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2774975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeesi/pseuds/weeesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mycroft terminated his exile but before Sherlock could escape from the infuriating plane, John and Mary were whisked away by car to an unknown location. </p><p>Sherlock hasn't seen them for an entire year. </p><p>He doesn't know when he'll see John again -- until one day, he does. </p><p>But, of course, nothing is simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a pattern that others made may prevail in the world

**Author's Note:**

> __  
> **THIS FIC IS NOW COMPLETE!!!**  
>  The title is from a poem of the same name by William Stafford; titles of the chapters are lines from the poem.
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> ***I have been listening to loads of music while writing and made a playlist specifically for this fic. You can listen to the full playlist on Spotify [ HERE.](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)***

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You lined me up  
> Across the room  
> Two falling sparks  
> One willing fool  
> And I, I always knew  
> That I would love you from afar
> 
> You told me 'boy look the other way'  
> You told me 'boy hide those hands'  
> But I've been living on the crumbs of your love  
> And I'm starving now 
> 
> From Afar ~ Vance Joy
> 
>    
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
>  [ Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/Dr-bQEMlN7M)

Sherlock’s head _hurt_. He wiped an errant trickle of blood away from his bottom lip. His assailant was unconscious, splayed at his feet.

A rowdy version of _Auld Lang Syne_ assaulted his senses from somewhere in the distance. Cigarette smoke wrapped itself lazily around his body. He watched the lone streetlight flicker on and off and tucked his coat closer. It was snowing. Dreadful.

Had it really been an entire year?

He let himself remember.

_________________________________

 

_Sherlock’s bed was positively destroyed, the duvet on the floor, the pillows long lost. The bedroom window was slightly ajar, the chilly autumn breeze cooling the sweat that lingered in the curve of his spine. He paused to think._

_John and Mary had been married for several months._

_Mary had shot Sherlock and killed him._

_Sherlock had thought of John and lived._

_John continued to live with Mary._

_John was in Sherlock’s bed._

_So then, just this once. Sherlock wished he would have been enough._

_John looked drunk. Sherlock couldn’t remember if he was or not. John’s mouth reached for his again._

_“Sherlock. Tell me how you like it. Tell me what you want.“ John breathed. His navy eyes looked almost black. Sherlock shifted down the length of John’s body and burrowed his head between his thighs. “Oh chriiiist.”_

_“Shh, John. Please. This is what I want.” The words came out slow. “Keep your eyes fixed on me.” He licked his love up the length of John’s cock. “Please. Will you do this for me?”  
_

_If the request sounded familiar, John didn’t say anything_.

 

_________________________________

 

Sherlock blinked, returning to reality.

Or at least, the pisspot version of reality that had been his existence since John had left his life a year ago. Been forced out, rather.

He started walking back to Baker Street, leaving the assailant’s body where it lay, covered in a dusting of fresh snow.

 

_________________________________

 

After Mycroft had terminated Sherlock’s exile but before he could exit the infuriating plane, John and Mary were whisked away by car to an unknown location. No amount of demanding, threatening—and _god help him_ , begging—had swayed Mycroft’s resolution to refuse Sherlock even a hint of information as to their whereabouts.

“It’s for his and Mary’s own safety, Sherlock. And their unborn child’s, of course.” Mycroft’s mouth twitched at the corners. “After all, isn’t that the reason for which you just killed a man?”

Sherlock’s eyes stung. The wind had started to blow harder across the open tarmac. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I _will_ protect them, Mycroft. You cannot keep this from me.”

“Ah, but I can, dear brother. As of this moment, you are only avoiding your imminent and tragic death by responding to the clarion call of Queen and Country. If you want to see John again soon, safe, you best do what I ask. Otherwise, I’m sure we can commandeer another private jet to make your alternative option a reality.”

“Is that a threat?” Sherlock spat.

Mycroft shifted his weight and sighed. “Sherlock. Would I threaten you?”

“Yes, always, and indubitably.”

“Very well. Consider it a threat.” He rolled his eyes. “Let’s get on with it.”

His separation from John was slightly tolerable that first day. Mycroft and his team had started preparations immediately and Sherlock spent most of the afternoon tapping furiously at his phone, alerting the sprawling network of his contacts scattered across Europe. They had already formulated a coherent scheme by early evening.

Left alone while Mycroft organised an emergency meeting with someone in the Home Office, Sherlock anxiously reshuffled papers strewn across the table. _Ridiculous_ , Sherlock thought. _How could it have been a fake suicide. How could I not have seen the signs? Me! I was with him on that rooftop. I was –_

His shoulders tensed. _  
_

_I was distracted. I was saying goodbye._

_If only I had said it_ , Sherlock thought miserably. He hated himself. _I couldn’t even say it now. Not when it would have been the last time. Not when it would have mattered._

Suddenly it was too much. He grabbed his coat and scarf and slammed the door behind him.

He walked the London streets for hours.

Later, he told himself the tears were because of the relentless wind.

_________________________________

 

Six weeks passed. Nothing. No action, no threats, no clear signs at all from Moriarty or any of his agents as to the next steps of the game. Sherlock passed his days drunk with distraction over the case and his nights thinking of anything but John: where he was, if he was safe, if he had consented to being kept away from Sherlock. If he had requested it, even. If he knew anything about what was really happening. _Why_ it was happening.

If somehow John knew what Sherlock had wanted to say that day on the tarmac.

If somehow John knew what Sherlock had wanted to say that night back in October.

Mycroft had held firm on his promise. He staunchly refused to share any information about John and Mary. _It’s for their safety, isn’t that the only thing that matters to you_ , Sherlock mimicked Mycroft’s exasperated voice in his head. _It’s no good protecting you if Moriarty can target them._

He rarely played the violin. He installed a lock on John’s old bedroom door to prevent himself from entering, then removed it a month later. He needed the extra space, he told himself. He slept there.

In a moment of weakness, he considered visiting the drug house again. Instead, he visited his gravestone.

 _Where are you, John, where are you_ , Sherlock mumbled to himself as he worked on the case. It became a mantra, a meditation, an internal pulse that thumped in time with his heartbeat. Two years of being dead and he had always known where John was. He had never once wondered, he simply knew. This was agony.

The scar from the bullet wound tingled in his chest. Long-healed after an entire year but it still hurt when he thought of why it had happened in the first place.

And the worst part was, he had lied to John. _Give my love to Mary. Tell her she’s safe now._

_Do you know, John? Did you figure it out? That I did it for you?_

He hated Mycroft with a renewed vengeance that grew by the day. He broke into his office no less than eighteen times. Eighteen times he was left with no information and a bruised ego. Eighteen times he hacked into that bloody laptop only to find dull, humourless emails and uninspired government reports. Mycroft was good, and he hated him.

Six more weeks passed. Then six more. Then six after that.

Sherlock tallied the days on a pad of paper he kept tucked under the cushion of John’s chair.

 _Where are you, John, where are you._ “I’ll get you out of this. Don’t you worry about a thing.” Sherlock startled himself by saying it out loud. He remembered when he had said those words to John before.

***

Over the course of the year Sherlock had been routinely attacked by Moriarty’s various assailants, always managing to somehow disarm or injure them before they could do too much damage. Of course Mycroft and his team had known the attacks were coming, had provided security personnel to tail Sherlock and assist if things got too out of hand, but Mycroft maintained that preventing the attacks all together would tip the game in Moriarty’s favor. _Just because you know what’s going to happen isn’t going to stop it_ , Mycroft had insisted, the infuriating reasoning of which sounded suspiciously familiar. _Then why doesn’t one of his snipers just shoot me and put an end to all this. Please? Why don’t you suggest it_ , Sherlock had snapped. For which he had earned a disapproving glare as they stood facing each other in Mycroft’s office.

“We cannot undermine the success of this entire operation now, Sherlock, just because you’ve had another run-in with some—“

“I made a vow, Mycroft.”

“Well, perhaps you shouldn’t have done.”

“It has been almost an entire year. This ends _now_. Do you understand,” Sherlock seethed, his voice cutting and low, “that there is nothing, _nothing_ , I will not do to find him? Things that surely you would like to prevent from happening."

Mycroft looked weary. He sighed. “Fine, Sherlock. I suppose it’s been long enough.” He walked over to a filing cabinet behind his desk. He paused. “John and Mary have been well-cared for, of course, and exceptionally protected. They have been under our constant surveillance since we had to-- tear them away from you that fateful day on the tarmac.”

“Since you abducted them and held them against their will for the better part of a year, you mean?”

“I have said it before, Sherlock. We are not doing this as part of some hateful scheme to destroy your personal happiness. You care for them, so we care for them. Really, you should thank me.”

The burn of Sherlock’s eyes said enough.

Mycroft gracefully entered in the keycode on the cabinet’s security panel, pulled open the metal drawer and retrieved a plain brown folder. Sherlock was across the room in two long strides and tore it out of his hands.

Inside were legal documents, surveillance notes, and photographs. John and Mary holding hands, sitting next to each other on a sofa. ( _Does John look happy? Unclear. He’s looking at something behind the camera.)_ Mary walking with what must be security detail, leaving a maternity clinic pushing… a baby carriage.

Underneath the photos was a birth certificate, dated 29 January.

A girl.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “You will, of course, recognise the surroundings in that photograph.”

“London.” Sherlock swallowed. “They’ve been in… London. This entire time."

His body ached. _Want._

“Hidden away in our finest safe house, I can assure you, the address of which is only known to a handful of people. And before you ask, Sherlock, you will not be visiting. No need to remind you that this case is not resolved and your presence will only increase the danger they are already in.” Mycroft held out his hand for the folder. Sherlock didn’t notice. He couldn’t move.

A girl.

_Elizabeth Sherlock Watson._

_________________________________

 

He trudged along in the snow back to Baker Street with a lip that refused to stop bleeding. The cigarette dangling from his mouth probably wasn’t helping matters, but John wasn’t there to tell him to stop. John wasn’t there.

His mobile beeped weakly through the woolen armor of the Belstaff. He pulled it out of his pocket with one hand, grimacing as a fresh scab on his knuckle ripped open again. The pain felt nice.

**Meeting tomorrow at 9.15. Your flat. Be prepared, Sherlock. – MH**

_Oh sod this_ , Sherlock thought. He jabbed out a text as he walked.

**I’m not available. – SH**

**You’ll want to be. – MH**

He sighed. He did.

He finally reached the front door and dug in his other coat pocket for the keys to 221B.

“Hello again, Sherlock.”

Sherlock whirled around, nerves frayed. He had let his guard down. The last time this had happened, he’d ended up with a broken hand and a tooth that had wobbled weakly until he’d pulled it out in a fit of anger.

It wasn’t John. It hadn’t been John’s voice, it hadn’t even sounded like John’s voice, he hadn’t heard John’s breathing or smelled John’s smell or felt the presence of John’s body.

But still. How he wished. How he wanted. Always.

It was Mary.


	2. for there is many a small betrayal in the mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wish you'd hold me when I turn my back  
> Well the less I give the more I get back  
> Your hands can heal, your hands can bruise  
> I don't have a choice, but I'd still choose you
> 
> I don't love you, but I always will  
> I don't love you, but I always will  
> I don't love you, but I always will  
> I don't love you, but I always will
> 
> Poison and Wine ~ The Civil Wars
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
> [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/fNlxKH9Jtmc)

_“Jump.”_

_John felt raindrops like tiny pins, stabbing sharp and relentless into the skin of his face. An ambulance siren pealed from somewhere below him. He stepped up onto the ledge of Barts rooftop and looked back over his shoulder at the tall figure standing behind him._

_“No. Please. I don’t want to."_

_“Jump.”_

_He looked down to the ground far beneath him. There he was, John himself, phone pressed to his cheek, the features of his face blurred. He was saying something, his lips were moving but he couldn’t hear, couldn’t make out what he was saying._

_“John. Jump.”_

_“Sherlock, no. I can’t. I can’t.”_

_“If you do it, then I won’t have to.”_

_Suddenly he was falling. He braced himself for the impact against the concrete sidewalk. God, it was going to hurt. Would he feel it? Or would he already be dead? He squeezed his eyes shut. And opened them underwater._

_He had landed in a swimming pool. Suddenly he was wearing a Semtex vest that was soaked and heavy, pulling him down to the bottom, sinking him like a stone. His fingers reached for a zipper. There was none. Panic bubbled in his blood. He tried to kick up but his legs wouldn’t work. All of his muscles were straining against the solid weight of the vest. His mind was screaming but his body was starting to shut down, lungs burning, brain fuzzy. He clenched his eyes tight and tried to concentrate._ Swim, John, I have to get to him, I have to… 

_He felt strong hands pull him from the water. Choking and gasping for air, he sputtered at the surface. Laid out on the tile floor next to the pool, he realised the vest was gone._

_“Oh, god, Sherlock.“_

_He opened his eyes. Seaglass green ones returned his gaze and studied him with a mixture of panic and relief. Christ, how he loved those eyes._

_“I’m here, John. I’m here. Are you alright?”_

_“Sherlock. I—“_

_A gunshot rang out, the sound ricocheting off of the hard tile walls. Sherlock’s eyes went wide. His face crumbled and he collapsed across John’s body. John felt Sherlock’s blood seeping out of him, onto John, soaking into his own wet shirt._

_Above them stood Mary, arm raised. Gun in hand. Blank expression._

_“Don’t worry, it’s over now. John?” He heard her voice but her mouth hadn’t moved._

_He looked back down at Sherlock. He was struggling to keep his eyes open._

_John watched his lips whisper, “We can trust Mary. She saved my life.”_

 

***

 

“John?” He sat up with a start, sweaty t-shirt sticking to his ribs. The room was dark and quiet. He shivered. Mary was sitting beside him in their bed, rubbing at his shoulder. “John, you were dreaming. It was just a dream. You’re alright.”

 _No, I’m not alright!_ John’s heart protested. He tried to slow his breathing, forcing deep lungfuls of air into his chest. Never really seemed to work, did it.

“It’s—yes, I’m alright. Just—the war. Dreams.” He lied. “Can’t seem to shake them.” He forced himself to consciously unclench his left hand from a tight fist.

“Sounded like you were saying his name again.” Mary shifted to lean her head on his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Mm.” John reached for her hand. “No, I’m fine. It’s—fine.” He settled back into the bed. His t-shirt felt disgusting against his clammy skin but he thought if he got up and went to the loo now it might look a bit suspicious. _Jesus, John_ , he chastised himself _._ “Let’s go back to bed.”

Mary nestled into his side. “I’m so sorry, John. Again. I need to say it. I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

He waited until she seemed to be asleep. Still, after so long… he couldn’t quite believe it all. What had happened that day in late January, in hospital…

_No, stop thinking about it. You have to be here with her. You made your choice. Doesn’t matter what happened._

_Keep the end in sight, John…._

He tallied the days in his head. It had been six months since the tarmac. Six months since he’d heard Sherlock’s voice, or told him “a bit not good”, or fell into step beside him as they chased their demons. _In more ways than one,_ he thought. He stared at Mary’s face, her features illuminated by the faint light from the alarm clock. _5.23 a.m._ _Christ. Might as well just…_ He crept out of bed and into the bathroom, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

 

__________________________________________

 

John could see the aeroplane in the car’s rearview mirror. Sherlock and Mycroft were huddled together next to one of the government’s fleet of shiny black cars, all parked a perfect distance from each other. Excluding, of course, an identical version of one which John himself had been forced into before Sherlock could even set foot on the ground again.

“Wait, I don’t understand. Where are we going? Don’t you think we should wait for him to discuss this?” John angrily called to the driver as he twisted his body around to look out the back window. The driver ignored him. Within moments of seeing the airplane land, Mycroft had ordered them into the back seat with, “Get in. Given the circumstances, you both are in considerable danger. And so is your daughter. I’ll be in touch.”

“What’s going on?” John had given him a steely look. Mycroft could be infuriating at the best of times and this moment was not the best of times. “You can’t just shove us into the back of a car without telling us what’s happening. We can help.”

“This is how you can help, John. Protect yourself and your family. Sherlock needs you to be safe, for his own good. As I said, I’ll be in touch soon.”

“Mycroft—Myc—“ The door was shut in his face and the car sped off.

Mary was next to him. She grabbed his hand tightly.

“It’ll be alright, John. He has a plan, he always does. This must be part of it.” She wrinkled her nose in discomfort as she readjusted her belly and groaned.

“Alright?” John looked into her eyes and then at her belly. Had he loved her? He had, hadn’t he? Why was he _here_ with _her_ instead of _there_ with _him_?

Oh, right. Because _he chose her._

Mary wrapped her hands around her middle. She thought he had been asking her. “Yes, I’m alright. Just about. Baby’s moving a lot is all.”

John rubbed his face with his right hand, his left still tightly caught in Mary’s.

 _How had this happened_ , _Sherlock,_ he thought. _How could you miraculously come back—for a second time—only for us to be torn apart again._ _The world is against us. Maybe we should take it as a sign._

Mary shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’ll be so relieved once she’s out. Can’t come soon enough.” She didn’t notice that John wasn’t listening. “What did Sherlock say to you?”

“Hm?” John had craned his neck to look back out of the window again. In the distance he could see Sherlock and Mycroft still talking – conferring? planning? _negotiating_ , John thought – together next to the car, Sherlock’s hands tucked into his pockets. Every molecule in John’s body wanted to be with him, next to him. _Had_ this been a part of the plan? Or were they improvising? Why couldn’t John be a part of it?

“John. What did Sherlock say to you back there? Before he stepped onto the plane?”

“Oh, just—goodbye.” He said lamely. He cleared this throat. “He told me a story about Mycroft being a rubbish big brother. Asked us to name her after him.” John gestured at Mary’s rounded belly. “You know how he is. Always picking the right moment to attempt being _funny_.” He tried to laugh.

He thought back to those few charged seconds after Sherlock’s I-might-as-well-say-it-now. _Say it, say it, say it_ , his heart seemed to beat. _Please, just say it for me, Sherlock, because I can’t. I want to but I can’t. Please, just say it. Tell me. Say it._ He had finally looked at Sherlock straight on, right in his eyes. Was that it? Was that why Sherlock had said that name thing instead? The possibility, the potential of finally acknowledging – _confessing_ – what existed behind them was too much, even for those last moments together?

“Well, god knows he’s one for bad timing.” Mary smiled.

 _You've no idea_ , John thought.

He looked out of the window at nothing.

 

__________________________________________

 

The car pulled up to a nondescript looking house on a street John had never been to before. The drive had been long and seemingly random enough that he had given up trying to trace the route. Mary had stayed mostly quiet. She seemed to have accepted whatever was happening. John felt as though his skin was burning.

His phone dinged a text alert.

**Get out of the car and approach the house. The driver will not follow you. Enter as quickly as possible and immediately lock the door behind you. Look for the files in the kitchen. –MH**

_This is fucking ridiculous_ , he thought. He jabbed the buttons on his phone with such ferocity he had to retype the text.

**WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON MYCROFT**

**I’ll be in touch this evening. - MH**

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and grabbed Mary’s hand. _I can’t believe I’m doing this,_ he thought, as he did exactly as he was told. They quickly made their way past tiny front garden and up the few front steps. The house was white with forest green wooden shutters; flower boxes filled with summer’s last attempts at foliage and winter’s dead leaves lined the windows. All appearances suggested that it was a totally ordinary house. True to Mycroft’s word, the door was unlocked and they went inside. John clicked the lock shut behind them.

“Hello?” He called out. No answer. They stood side by side in the entryway, listening.

“I wish I’d brought my gun.” Mary whispered. John turned to look at her. He had a weird, fleeting moment of wanting to say, _that’s my line._

“No need for that.” Anthea appeared from around the corner. “Welcome to your new home. Please, come in.”

“Our new home—wait, what? What’s going on?” John followed Anthea past the sitting room into the kitchen. The house was nicely furnished, cozy and comfortable, much larger than where John and Mary were currently living. The fireplace in the sitting room was alight and the kettle was boiling. _If this whole situation wasn’t so totally fucked up, this would actually be nice_ , John thought.

“I’m to make sure you read these,” Anthea handed him a stack of thick files that had been sitting on the kitchen worktop, not looking up from her phone. “Mycroft should be in touch—“

“Tonight, yes I know.” He looked over at Mary. She was ignoring their discussion and had eased herself down into a chair by the fire. _Why is she so calm about all this? I suppose that’s what you get when you marry an assassin. Nothing fazes you after a while when you’ll kill people for money,_ he thought blandly.

“Well, I better be off, Dr. Watson. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to make you both more comfortable.” She clicked away on her heels, still staring at her phone and swiftly disappearing back into the entryway.

John looked down at the orderly files in his hands. Four of them. All stamped “Confidential Property of the British Security Services. To be removed only at the pleasure of Mr. M. Holmes.” Four names, one on each file. _Sherlock Holmes. John Watson. James Moriarty. A.G.R.A._ / _Mary (Morstan) Watson_. He let them drop back down on the kitchen worktop, rubbing his face with his hands. He walked into the sitting room and sat down across from Mary, glancing up at her. She was calm, face expressionless, absentmindedly rubbing her belly. John studied her. _Who are you,_ he thought for the millionth time. The kettle whistled with displeasure. He ignored it.

“Fine, I’ll get that. You want tea then?” Mary pushed herself up and out of the chair. “Wonder there the loos are. Wouldn’t mind a hot bath…”

“Really, Mary? We’ve just been essentially _abducted_ without a chance to talk to Sherlock, taken to some random house and locked in and now I have some of Mycroft’s top secret files _which had better bloody well explain things_ and you’re just—just—“

“What, John?” She looked: bored.

“Wouldn’t you like to know what the hell we’re doing here? Don’t you care about why Sherlock’s not with us?” John knew it wasn’t her fault, he shouldn’t be angry at her for their present circumstances.

 _But it is her fault,_ his heart whispered _, if she hadn’t broken into Magnussen’s office, if she hadn’t shot Sherlock, if Sherlock hadn’t tried to protect her, after everything she had done…_

“Yes, John, obviously.” She snapped. “But I’m pregnant, I’m tired, and I want a bloody cup of tea. And a bath.” She waddled into the kitchen and busied herself, her back turned to John.

He sighed and closed his eyes. A familiar word flashed behind them. _Mistake._

John forgot about the files on the worktop. When he had remembered, they were gone.

Later, he found them tucked behind some books on a bookshelf in their bedroom. Mary denied having put them there.

He sat down on the end of the bed and began to read.

 

__________________________________________

 

John had quietly eased the bathroom door shut and locked it. Mary hadn’t moved at all as he’d shifted his weight and got out of their bed. He wasn’t completely certain she was asleep, although he wasn’t completely certain about anything having to do with Mary anymore. Had he ever been? _Maybe._

It wasn’t exactly like he wanted her to know that he’d been regularly wanking in the bathroom at all hours of the night caught up in fantasies about his ex-flatmate. His best friend, rather. His… what? _What am I to you, Sherlock_. It was that he just couldn’t help it anymore.

After years of wanting. Well. One time, taking.

The nightlight cast a soft glow about the bathroom walls, softening the sharp edges of his godforsaken reality. It was comforting, in a way. He stripped off his t-shirt and half considered a shower. _No, don’t risk it. Just do it like usual._ He crossed over to the opposite side of the room and leaned his forehead against the cool tile wall. It felt like a kiss.

He let himself remember.

 

__________________________________________

 

_John watched as his cock slowly disappeared into Sherlock’s mouth, his view party obscured by a mayhem of dark curls. He was stretched out on his back in Sherlock’s bed. He was in Sherlock’s bed. Naked. He was. John was in Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock was in his bed. With John. Naked._

_John couldn’t get his brain to work._

_“F—ucking hell. Ohhhhhh. Chriiiiist, Sherlock,” he moaned as Sherlock lifted off with a soft slurp and then licked another long stripe up the length of his cock. Sherlock looked up at him again and slowly took the head of John’s cock in his mouth, sucking gently. His tongue did something that made John’s arms go numb._

_“Oh my god, I’m—I—Sherlock, do you—“_

_Sherlock looked up and pulled off again. “John. Please. Just—let me.” John reached down and rolled a curl through his fingers. Sherlock was consumed, eyes dark. “I want this for you. Just one time. Please. I—I want this for us.”_

_John dropped his head back down on the bed. I’m married, he thought. I have a wife. We’re trying to work things out. She’s pregnant. I’m married. To my wife. I’m going to forgive her. I think._

_I’m in love with Sherlock._

_Sherlock had lifted John’s legs up, bent at the knees over his shoulders. One hand was wrapped around the base of John’s cock, the other was tucked under his arse. Sherlock’s mouth was still sucking gently, that gorgeous cupid’s bow stretched out across the width of his prick. The visual of that alone was nearly enough to make John explode._

John paused his reverie to look down. His pants were tented, a small wet spot leaking through the thin fabric. _Don’t worry about it_ , he reassured himself, _just do it_. He pulled off his pants and wrapped his fist around his erection, biting his lip to keep from making any noise as he started in with slow, long strokes. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the tile wall again.

_He watched, mesmerised by the small movements of Sherlock’s shoulders, the slow twist of long pale fingers around soft pink skin, the glistening wet trails of saliva and pre-come that seeped out of the sides of his mouth and dripped down the curves of Sherlock’s chin. He watched as Sherlock watched him. They stared at each other._

_God, he wanted him._

_“Sher—I’m—you’re—“ He gasped as Sherlock shifted his body closer to John, maximising the contact of their skin, the insides of John’s thighs rubbing against Sherlock’s chest. The combination of sensations was sublime._

_John came before he even realised he was coming. His tensed and shuddered and then flooded Sherlock’s mouth, the physical release of his orgasm overloading his brain. His body felt electric. He hummed._

_The emotional release came soon after._

_I'm in love with you. I need to tell you._

_I can’t._

John opened his eyes and looked down. Silky come oozed between his fingers and was starting to drip down onto his crumpled pants. He shuffled over to the sink and turned the taps on low, cleaning himself off and washing his hands. He wadded up his dirty pants and tossed them into the basket. Then he sat down on the floor and cried.

 

__________________________________________

 

“John, surely you remember that Moriarty has no misgivings about wrapping you in Semtex. Or using trained snipers, for that matter. You must understand that this is a significant concern of ours, a concern that no doubt Sherlock shares.” Mycroft was somehow simultaneously studying his phone, replying with his signature to Anthea’s presentations of various forms, and reviewing an important looking file while pointedly _not_ looking at John. 

“Then why isn’t he here to share his concerns?” John asked coolly.

Mycroft finally looked up. “I’ve told you, John. It’s not like I’m orchestrating all of this for— _fun_.” He grimaced at the word. “Sherlock is vulnerable and you are vulnerable. You are much easier targets if you are in close proximity to each other. Moriarty has used you against Sherlock before and we cannot let that happen again.”

“So you’ll just let Sherlock go it alone then? Perfect. Sod him and all but at least you won’t have to repeat your mistakes.” John tried to sound sarcastic but he knew it came out cutting. He didn’t care.

“John. Listen to me.” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, not unkindly, but with gravity. “You were moved to this safe house today partly because of your past history with Moriarty, partly because of the inherent vulnerability of your pregnant wife. You are also here, quite frankly, because of Sherlock. He—“ Mycroft hesitated slightly. If John hadn’t been as (adequately) proficient at understanding the subtle nuances of the Holmes’ brothers, he would have missed it. “He—cares for you. Deeply, John. Surely you’re aware of that. After the wedding—well. Probably best that we avoid that topic for now.”

“Why?”

Mycroft sighed. “Why do you think he was back on the sauce, so to speak, when you found him in that drug house?”

“He…said it was for a case. Magnussen.”

“Wrong, John.”

“It was. He said he had wanted it to hit the papers. Discredit him or something.”

Mycroft leaned forward, hands peaked in front of him. His similarity to Sherlock in that moment made John’s heart ache with a familiar _thud._ “Do you remember that Irene Adler business?”

“Yeah. ‘Course.” Irene was still a sore spot for John.

“And that Christmas night when he first thought she was dead, you remember?”

“A danger night. We checked through the bloody sock index.”

“He took the cigarette, John.” Mycroft stood up, slowly. “A cigarette for Irene. Imagine his throes of self-destruction over losing _you_.” He smiled bitterly. “Ah, but we don’t have to imagine the beginnings of it, do we.” A combination of resignation and regret resonated in his voice.

“I—it’s not like that. He didn’t lose me—“ John stuttered.

“He _cannot_ lose you, John.”

“Mycroft—“

“When you’re asking yourself why you are here, remember that.”

He turned on his heel and walked away.

 

__________________________________________

 

“Ah, you’re Dr…Watson?” A pretty blond nurse stood holding out a thin stack of paperwork in front of John. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Um, you just need to fill out these forms, please.”

“Right, sure. Thanks.” John set down his styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee on the table next to him and reached for the papers. “Are they ready for me yet?” 

He was sitting anxiously in the waiting room of a ridiculously posh hospital maternity unit. After being woken up in the middle of the night by a text that simply said, “Baby’s coming”, and Mary gone from beside him already seemingly already whisked away, he was taken by one of those bloody cars to the unit. Now John was waiting for a doctor to come and retrieve him so he could be with Mary and their daughter. Had she been born yet? He didn’t even know.

While waiting for the nurse to respond, John started to busy himself with the paperwork. Date of birth: 29th January. Name of child: 

He thought for a moment.

Mary had wanted Elizabeth for a first name. She allowed John the second.

Should he do it?

Yes.

Elizabeth Sherlock Watson.

  
The pairing of his last name with Sherlock’s first gave him an unexpectedly warm feeling in the pit of his stomach.

_For Christssakes, John, you’re at the birth of your daughter. Who you conceived. With your wife. While you were Making Love._

_Which you haven’t done since… oh god when was it…_

The memory of a stretched cupid’s bow around his cock assaulted his mind.

The warm feeling didn’t dissipate.

_If you never see him again, at least every time you say her name you’ll think of him. And what he was to you._

“Are they ready for me—“ John looked up but the nurse had disappeared. In her place was a very serious looking man, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, neatly trimmed mustache framing a thin upper lip, white lab coat stiffly settled on his bony shoulders.

“Hello, Dr. Watson. I’m Dr. Myers. I have some important information to share with you.” His voice sounded dry, unused.

“Are they alright? Mary and the baby?” John felt disgusted with himself, having been just moments ago caught up in his night with Sherlock. _Again._ While he should have had no other thoughts than for the safety of his wife and daughter. _Jesus, John._

“We should find a place to talk privately. Please follow me.” Dr. Myers snatched up the paperwork and swiftly took off down a long narrow corridor. John quickly followed. They entered a small room, the door closing smoothly behind them.

“Well, tell me. What’s happened?!” John noted his left hand starting to clench.

“Dr. Watson. Your wife, Mary, and your daughter, whom I see you’ve just named—“ he paused to glance at paperwork, “—Elizabeth _Sherlock_ Watson, she…”

“What? Are they alright!?” His jaw was clenching too, now.

“The baby—“

The door swung open. Both doctors turned their heads in surprise.

“M—“

 

__________________________________________

 

On good days, John felt a like a zoo animal.

On bad days? Well. He didn’t think he had too many bad days left in him.

It had been one year since he had last laid eyes on Sherlock. He was going mad with the memory of it.

They never went anywhere alone anymore. They never went anywhere alone together, anymore. John and Mary always, always had security detail with them when they went out. A rotating selection of black suits and earpieces, constantly scanning the environment for threats, following them like a ceaselessly revolving bad dream. John and Mary were never alone and were hardly ever separated.

Which was why:

when Mary had said she was going out for a walk on New Year’s Eve

and her security came back alone and panicking, saying he’d lost track of her

and she didn’t answer her phone or respond to any texts

and for some reason Mycroft’s people didn’t seem to mind too much—

John knew something was wrong. And, conveniently, he also knew where she had gone.


	3. to know what occurs but not recognise the fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't erase it from my mind  
> I just replay it, over, think of it all the time.  
> But I don't want to imagine  
> Words you spoke to her that night.  
> Naked bodies look like porcelain,  
> You both knew I'd be bleeding inside....
> 
> Did she make your heart beat faster than I could?  
> Did she give you what you hoped for?  
> Oh, nights of loveless love, I hope it made you feel good,  
> Knowing how much I adored you.
> 
> Love ~ Daughter
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
> [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/S5MpD6b-bkE)

For a long moment, Sherlock and Mary stared at each other, faces and bodies steady, unmoving. He remembered the first night they met, his deductions about her now swirling in his memories.

_Secret tattoo._

_Cat lover._

_Bakes own bread._

_Liar._

He had been wrong. He had missed it. Blinded by sentiment.

And now John was gone from him.

“Mary. What.“ Sherlock stuttered. He tried again. “Why are you—“ 

“You know why I’ve come.” Her face was emotionless. She moved closer to him, shifting the bag on her shoulder. He glanced down at her belly. She wasn’t pregnant anymore, obviously. He couldn’t decide if that made him weirdly relieved or more anxious.

“Open the door, Sherlock.”

He turned away from her slowly, shifted the keys in his hand and unlocked the door. _Whytonightwhytonightwhytonight_ , his thoughts rushed. Mary followed him into the darkness of the entryway. He almost expected her to say, _Is John with you?_

He closed the door behind them, shutting out the swirling snow.

Mary looked calm. “John isn’t coming.”

“Okay.” Sherlock stared at her.

She glanced up the steps. “Why don’t we go into the flat? If you don’t mind.”

“Okay.” He felt stupid. He felt completely and utterly stupid.

Mary led them into 221B, casually tossing her bag onto the sofa. Sherlock stood in the doorway, watching her. He felt heavy, leaden. She was there, just _there_ , after a year, like nothing had happened. Nothing at all.

“Ah. Looks the same,” Mary took her time, her eyes roaming about the flat. “Although a bit sad, without John here, of course. I’ll bet you’re aching for him by now.”

Sherlock tried to ignore the sting. “Where have you been?” he whispered. He couldn’t seem to swallow. “Where’s your daughter?”

“Oh, Sherlock. Haven’t you figured those bits out yet?” She laughed, her expression false, her eyes dull. “I really thought you were quite good, but it turns out you are just as slow now as you were a year ago. For some bloody reason you won’t see the worst in me.”

_No, I won’t, because I wanted you to be good. For John. Because I thought that was what he wanted. That **you** were what he wanted. _

He did not say it out loud.

He cleared his throat. “If you are here to ask for my help, you might as well drop the façade now, Mary.” His voice was raspy, but he held her gaze.

Her expression changed. She looked serious. Almost sad.

“Alright. I’m—sorry.” She sighed. “What do you know already?”

“I knew you were in London. I didn’t know where, exactly.”

“Well, that’s hardly anything to be going on with.”

“I know that you gave birth to a daughter on the 29th of January.”

 _The anniversary of the day that John and I met_.

He did not say it out loud.

Something flashed in Mary’s eyes.

There it was. That was it… something with the daughter.

Their daughter. _John’s_ daughter.

Sherlock didn’t hold back.

“I know that you’re afraid you’ve made a mistake and so you’ve come to me. You’ve successfully lost your security detail this evening while knowing full well that myself and my flat are under constant surveillance by the same people who have protected you and John over this past year. You’re eager for me to help you, yet you didn’t turn to Mycroft which suggests that you don’t want him involved, at least not initially, for some reason. You’re in over your head and not for the first time.”

_What did you do, Mary._

He did not say it out loud.

“And I know that John doesn’t know that you came here tonight.”

“How can you know that? Maybe he just didn’t want to come—“

Suddenly Sherlock couldn’t do this anymore. He took two swift steps towards her, eyes gleaming, coat whirling around his legs. She held her ground defiantly.

“If given the chance, John would be here.” Anger was bubbling up inside of him. His voice dropped back down into a whisper. “I _know_ that he would be here.”

“You do, do you.” Mary crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, let me tell you this. John knows who I am. My name. My past. My connections. It’s simple, Sherlock. I love him and he loves me. He knows about what happened that day on the tarmac, he knows about Moriarty, he knows about our daughter. He knows everything now and he chose to stay with me. He’s got on with his life." 

_What life? I’ve been away,_ echoed in his head.

Instead he said, “You’re lying.”

Footsteps on the stairs.

“John knows—“

“Of course he does.”

“—what Mycroft has chosen to tell him, Mary. And he doesn’t know everything.” Sherlock took a step backwards and reached his hand for the doorknob. He pulled the door open.

“Oh, he doesn’t?” Mary rolled her eyes. “What could he possibly not know already?”

Mycroft stepped into the room, umbrella in hand. He cleared his throat mildly. “Quite a lot, Mary. To start, perhaps the fact that you were at one time working for me.”

 

___________________________________________________

 

_“Sherlock. You don’t tell John.”_

Mary’s features were blurry. His eyes wouldn’t focus the right way. He could feel blood pumping through his heart, through his body.

_“Look at me and tell me you won’t tell him.”_

She had killed him. He was alive.

 

___________________________________________________

 

_Sherlock stared at John. John stared back._

_He had heard John climbing up the stairs to 221B over an hour ago and glanced at the clock now. 3.25am. Bit late. Or was it early? Recently, Sherlock found himself opening the door to find John standing there at all hours of the day and night. He had offered for John to stay at Baker Street that autumn while he worked things out with Mary (or if, **if** he worked things out with her, Sherlock amended) but John had refused._

_“I’m trying, really. But it’s difficult, her being pregnant.” John was slumped in his chair, untouched mug of tea on the table beside him. Sherlock was sat across from him, fire blazing between them. “I want to—love her, of course I do. I do. I think. I don’t know what to do. Sometimes. Sometimes I think I don’t want to be with her anymore.” John rested his head in his hands, the watch on his wrist glinting in the firelight. He wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. That was new._

_Sherlock closed his eyes. Having John this close, his voice, the smell of him… he couldn’t resist anymore, after resisting for so long. He knew it was selfish. He was a selfish man, after all. He wanted to be selfish._

_He imagined John’s fingers closing around his wrist. Warm. Tracing gently over his pulse. Slipping under his cuffs. Under the hem of his shirt. Warm fingertips brushing against warm skin. Skin to skin._

_John’s skin on Sherlock’s skin._

_“Obviously I loved her before, when you were still… When you love someone, you can’t just—turn it off—when they do something that you wish they wouldn’t have done. That’s just not how it works. For me, at least.”  
_

_Sherlock imagined the pressure of John’s body against his, belly to belly, hips to hips, thighs to thighs. He imagined John’s breath over the back of his neck, his bare chest, his cock. He imagined that voice vibrating into his body, John’s wet mouth spreading against him.  
_

_“But it’s not been easy. Honestly, I don’t know if I love her anymore. There’s the baby now and that’s different, but… she shot you, Sherlock. You, of all people. I can’t. It’s just, when it comes to you, I can’t.” John paused and took a breath. He lifted his head out of his hands. “Sherlock, I think I should tell you—”_

_Sherlock imagined John above him. Beneath him. Beside him._

_Sweaty. Skin salty and slick. Eyes of love._

_He was definitely getting hard now. Shit._

_“Hang on. Are you even listening to me?” John shifted forward in his chair. “I’ve come over here in the middle of the bloody night to talk to you about all of this—which you know is difficult for me, this sort of stuff—and you’re sitting there with your eyes closed. That’s it, hm? You’re going to sit there, silent? What do you have to say?”_

_Sherlock was still._

_This was the moment. This was when he had to choose._

_He wanted to say, Love me, John._

_He wanted to say, I want you to love me, John._

_He said, “I want you to leave, John.” His eyes stayed shut._

_John stared. “Sorry, what?”_

_“Please.”  
_

_“Sherlock.” He could sense John’s body tensing. “You want me to leave? Right now. After everything I’ve just said.” John stood up in a burst and stepped into the space between their chairs. Sherlock was expecting anger but John didn’t seem angry, for some reason. He seemed…resigned? Or maybe… relieved? Sherlock couldn’t deduce. “Fine. Look. What I’ve been trying to say—“_

_“John, if I open my eyes and you don’t leave, I’m going to do something that I might regret.” Sherlock waited. He felt his heart beat three times in his chest._

_John didn’t move. He could hear him sigh._

_“Sherlock, open your eyes.” John’s voice was low. Steady._

_He did. He was eye-to-eye with a denim-covered crotch. He swallowed._

_John knelt down, slowly, in front of Sherlock. Their eyes met. Ocean blue to navy blue. But, of course, it wasn’t as simple as that._

_“I know what you’re going to do.” John whispered._

_“No, John. You don’t.”_

_“I think I do.” John inched forward on his knees. Suddenly Sherlock felt John’s arms wrapped around him, his legs opening automatically to welcome John’s body between them. He hadn’t hugged him since the wedding. But. This was different than that hug. This was…_

_“You’re… important to me, Sherlock. Obviously I hope you know that. Why do you think I’m here? You’re my… my best…” John’s voice tucked into the curves of Sherlock’s ear, his chin rested on Sherlock’s shoulder. It belonged there. He belonged there._

_I’m your best… what, John? Man? Did that already. Friend? Yes, you’ve said._

_What am I to you now?_

_Slowly, carefully, he put his arms around John’s body. He hugged back._

_Chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, they held each other._

_He knew he shouldn’t. He knew it wasn’t fair… and John was married. And going to be a father. But John was here. And he was holding Sherlock and he wasn’t leaving and Sherlock thought maybe… maybe…_

_He thought about it and decided._

_Sherlock breathed deeply, drank John into him._

_“John.”_

_“Hm.”_

_“Can I kiss you?” He whispered against his ear._

_John pulled back. Sherlock prepared himself, though for what, he didn’t know: a punch to the face, an “I’m not gay”, a look of disgust, a view of John’s back as he rushed out of the flat._

_John practically crushed their mouths together._

_Suddenly everything was happening at once. Slowly and too fast. Sherlock’s brain flooded with every molecule of sensation, every minuscule touch between John’s body and his, yet he couldn’t seem to make any of it last long enough. He wanted to crawl inside of this moment, breathe it into the cells of his being._

_Thisishappeningthisishappeningthisishappeningthisishappening_

_John eagerly pressed his hips into the space between Sherlock’s legs, not getting close enough, hipbones pushing into the insides of thighs. His tongue dipping into Sherlock’s mouth, hands restless over his back. It was like a dam had burst, years of wanting pouring out through fingertips and lips. They were hungry for each other._

_Sherlock could feel heat between their bodies. He twisted his hands into John’s hair, felt the skin on the back of his neck with his thumbs. Cautiously dipped a finger underneath his collar, traced a little circle against pink skin. Sucked at tip of his tongue, slid wet lips across the smooth curves of John’s. Trailed a hand down John’s side, down to his waist. Warm. John was so warm. He moved it slowly over to rest on the center of John’s belly. John murmured his approval._

_Sherlock waited. John waited._

_Sherlock quietly moved his hand and placed it gently on top of the bulge in John’s jeans._

_Oh god. John was hard._

_Sherlock was so hard he nearly came right then and there._

_“Mmmchrist, Sherlock.” John groaned, breaking the kiss._

_“Hm.”_

_“Go on then.”_

_Sherlock could feel John’s heart (or was it his heart?) beating against him through his shirt. He grasped the button on John’s flies and pulled it swiftly through the hole. John wrapped one of his hands around the back of Sherlock’s neck, the other was pressed softly to his chest. His eyes were liquid dark. Sherlock pinched the zipper and started to pull down._

_“John. Are you sure—“_

_“Do it, Sherlock. Just fucking do it.” John stared into him. “I want you."  
_

_Sherlock had the zipper down and John’s jeans at his knees in moments. He closed the distance between their bodies again, erections pressing together._

_John rewarded his actions with a slow, deep kiss. He felt his cock nudge John’s in response._

_Christ, he really might actually come from this._

_This time Sherlock broke their kiss. He had to be sure._

_“John, what are we doing,” he whispered against his lips._

_John looked at him._

_“This is what we’re doing because this is what we want,” came the whispered response._

_And for the moment that was quite enough._

_Somehow they stumbled out of the sitting room, past the kitchen, down the hallway and into the doorway of Sherlock’s bedroom, all while still intertwined. John looked absolutely disheveled: jeans inexplicably left behind in the sitting room, shirt wrinkled and untucked, lips rubbed red from kisses, hair stuck up in odd angles. A little wet spot on his pants betrayed him. He looked beautiful._

_Sherlock wanted to devour him._

_Their bodies collided again, this time four hands struggling to undo buttons and pull down shirts and trousers and pants. Twice their heads bumped together, once John fell back against the wall. Sherlock resisted the impulse to push him up against it and keep him there._

_Now both men were completely stripped bare. They paused._

_Thisishappeningthisishappeningthisishappeningthisishappening_

_Sherlock couldn’t help but feel like somehow John would suddenly turn around, grab his clothes and rush out of the flat. He didn’t._

_Maybe John would leave… now. He didn’t._

_Or maybe… now. He didn’t._

_Sherlock felt his cheeks flush as he watched John’s eyes trail down his body bit by bit, searching the expanse of his chest, lingering over a healing scar, drifting down his stomach and coming to rest on his cock, which was now obscenely erect. John let out a slow exhale. Sherlock took a step towards him._

_John’s eyes met his again. “Whatever you want.”_

_“I want to taste you.”_

_John let out what sounded almost like a sob. He lunged at Sherlock, reaching for his mouth, toppling them both back onto the bed. Somehow within seconds the duvet was pulled aside and tossed to the floor, the pillows thrown carelessly across the room. John was on his back. Sherlock crawled on top of him, littering his chest with kisses, pressing his tongue against peaked nipples, tasting and caressing every inch of the man that was stretched out beneath him. He sucked on the curve of skin stretched across John’s collarbone. He kissed him on the temples._

_Anything. He would do anything for this. Anything for John._

_And what had he done to finally get it? Get him?_

_“Everything, Sherlock.” John arched his hips up beneath him, mouth reaching again for his._

_(Oh god, had he said that out loud!?)_

_“Tell me how you like it. Tell me what you want.“ John breathed. Sherlock shifted down the length of John’s body and burrowed his head between his thighs. “Oh chriiiist.”_

_“Shh, John. Please. This is what I want.” The words came out slow. “Keep your eyes fixed on me.” He licked his love up the length of John’s cock. John went limp. “Please. Will you do this for me?”_

_***_

Sherlock opened his eyes and rolled over on the sofa. He closed them again. No point in thinking about it any more today.

_____________________________________________________

“Run!”

Lestrade nearly dropped his phone onto the pavement of the carpark.

“What—“

“I said run!” Sherlock bolted past him towards an alleyway partially hidden behind some bins. He tucked his chin down slightly to make sure Mycroft could hear him through the transmitter hidden in the folds of his scarf, narrowly missing a bicycle and unceremoniously knocking over a box setting on top of one of the bins in the process.

“Target spotted. Heading northwest. Lestrade’s with me," he glanced over his shoulder, seeing the detective inspector not far behind, “and we’re in pursuit.”

Mycroft’s voice was quiet in his earpiece. “Your location?”

“You know my location, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled. “You have five men on me right now.”

“I need to confirm it.”

“Near Blandford and Manchester.”

A slight pause. Then Mycroft’s voice came through the earpiece again. “He’s heading toward Baker Street.”

“Clearly.”

Lestrade had caught up to Sherlock. They paused momentarily to let a bus pass in front of them, then started to run again, darting in and out of alleyways.

“So what—exactly—are we—doing?” Lestrade asked between gasps for air.

“Following one of the most dangerous men in London. He’s going to attempt to break into Baker Street.” Sherlock pulled out his phone, scanning a text which had pinged its arrival a moment before. “And we’re going to watch him do it.”

“Who? I don’t see anybody. Who are we following?”

“Dr. Benjamin Myers.”

 

___________________________________________________

“As you know, Magnussen was well aware of your history, Mary, including the fact that you had worked for the British Secret Services for a spell. He wanted power over me in some way or another, as pressure points go. Sherlock did his best to provide it for him but we all know how that turned out.” Mycroft gave a pointed look in Sherlock’s direction. He was sat in Sherlock’s chair, Mary in John’s. Sherlock stood in front of the sofa. Snow was swirling against the windows. Everything felt wrong. “The fewer obvious connections between us, the better. Hence avoiding attending your wedding, avoiding provoking Magnussen. Now with Moriarty back in the picture, we can’t be too careful.”

“And you honestly believe that John doesn’t know this already?” Mary folded her hands in her lap, crossed her legs.

“Have you told him yourself?" _  
_

She looked defiant. The answer was clear. “He read those files you left for him in the safehouse. I know he did.”

“And a file is only as illuminating as one allows it to be.” Mycroft took a small sip of tea. “Your stamina in maintaining this façade is truly remarkable. Admirable isn’t the right word, I suppose.” He set the teacup back down in the saucer.

“Well, certainly both of you have done your share of lying to John.” Mary said coolly, turning to look over at Sherlock. “You were horrible. Killed yourself in front of him. Lied to him for two years. Pushed back into his life on a night that was supposed to be a _happy_ one.”

“This isn’t a competition of who’s been worse to John—“

“Why did you persuade him to take me back, then? And let him believe that the bullet wound was just _surgery_? It killed you! You never told him that.”

“He had to hear me say it out loud. He had to believe me.”

“Why, Sherlock? So that your plan against Magnussen would work? So that I would be safe? I think we both know you were wrong about me from day one.”

“I wanted it because that’s what I thought John wanted.” Sherlock’s eyes bore holes into her. His heart was racing. “Because I lov—“

Mycroft had pulled out his phone and was hurriedly typing a response. “Sorry to interrupt but we must be getting on. I’ve got word that we may have a visitor soon.” He slid the phone back into his jacket pocket. “Let’s get to it, Mary. What have you done?”

Mary shifted in her seat. “It’s to do with Elizabeth.”

Sherlock felt a strange flip in his stomach.

“What about her?”

“I—I told John that the baby was living here with you.”

He thought maybe he had heard her wrong.

“What?! Why?" _  
_

“I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t lose him—can’t—lose him—and when it came down to it I thought it was the only solution. For a while at least. I thought he would be relieved: if we couldn’t take care of her now, then you would have her. He was focused on getting through all this, getting to see her again eventually. I told him a safehouse was no place for a baby…”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock’s voice was steel as his head started to spin.

“But it just got to be too much and now I don’t know what to do. Dr. Myers said he would help, that we could find a baby—“

“Dr. Myers? You abandoned John’s daughter to a man called Dr. Myers?”

Mary swallowed and looked at her hands, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Not exactly. The baby wasn’t… It _was_ just wedding nerves, Sherlock.”

It hit him like a bullet, as if she shot him in the heart all over again.

“No,” he whispered.

“I knew you would figure it out, deduce it. I knew if I did the right things, acted the right way, you would put it together and assume… I guess I should thank you, because by then it was obvious that I needed to do something for John to choose me—and he did, you even spelled it out for him. It was just supposed to be a little thing. I really wanted to get pregnant, I did! I loved him. I do love him.”

She sighed. _  
_

“But I didn’t get pregnant. And it was easy enough, faking it. We weren’t sleeping together by then and I was careful so that he would think… I had scans made, photos taken. Put them into the official files. I thought I was being clever.”

Sherlock turned to look at Mycroft, his expression stricken.

“Did you know about this?” Sherlock demanded, eyes burning.

Mycroft looked uncomfortable. “My sources informed me that the baby had been placed elsewhere, in another safehouse. I had been receiving regular updates, everything was sorted and checked out. Short of examining Mary myself, all of the information I had regarding baby Watson was believable." 

Mary tried to hide a smug smirk that passed through her mouth. Sherlock felt like he was going to explode.

Mycroft signed and rubbed a crease from his forehead. “You’ve outdone yourself, Mary. All this. Right under our noses.”

“You said it—files are only as illuminating as one allows them to be.”

“I suppose I should stop underestimating clever women who are players in a game they do not fully understand. You remember that Irene Adler business, don’t you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock said nothing. Mycroft continued.

“I wasn’t aware of Dr. Myers' involvement in this scheme of yours. This changes things considerably.”

Mary raised her head. “It was all for John. I thought he would be happier this way.”

“All for John?” Sherlock could barely control himself. “So the way to keep a man with trust issues happily under your thumb is to lie to his face?”

“Oh and you haven’t lied to his face, Sherlock?” Mary suddenly looked irritated. “How’s that contributed to his trust issues?”

“Mary, please. We don’t have time for this right now.” Mycroft glanced again at his phone.

She sighed. “I was put in touch with Dr. Myers through some of my—connections—and he was helping, initially, with the logistics of it all.”

“Initially?”

“Yes, but a few months ago he started to threaten me. He said that if anyone found out he would have to do something, if we tried to leave the safehouse, to escape somewhere, especially if John did… that this wasn’t going to end well. He told me that it wasn’t up to him anymore, that someone else had gotten involved. He said I had to come to you, that you would help me if I told you the truth. Didn’t want to, obviously, but I’m out of options.”

Mycroft’s phone dinged a text alert again.

Mary pleaded with Sherlock. “I know you care about John. You would do it for me if it meant you were really doing it for him. We both know that. I said that there is nothing that I would not do to keep from losing him and I meant it.”

_This can’t be happening. Not to John. Not again.  
_

“I need your help, Sherlock, please. You made a vow at the wedding to be there for us. You said all three of us, even. Please. I made a mistake with Dr. Myers—“

“Well, Mary, that should come as no surprise,” Mycroft interjected. “Due to our history, I was obligated to protect you from Moriarty and his agents, which I successfully did for an entire year. That is until you began to collaborate with one on your own.” _  
_

“Sorry?” Mary looked confused.

“Dr. Myers. He works for Moriarty.”

All three people in the room were momentarily silent, until a fourth spoke.

“Does he, then.”

Three heads turned synchronously.

John was standing in the doorway.

Gun nestled in the palm of his hand. _  
_

Safety off.


	4. lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I don’t eat, I don’t sleep at all  
> Like limbs in procession,  
> Like so many birds  
> Stampeding like oxen,  
> Our hearts are a herd
> 
> I loved you in the best  
> I loved you in the best way possible  
> I loved you in the best
> 
> No Rest ~ Dry the River
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
>  [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/3iUHfAChgBA)

Mary broke the silence first.

“John-you’re-here,” her words tumbling out over one breath as she stared at him. Somehow she looked unprepared. Apprehensive. She looked nothing like the woman John fell in love with, nothing like the woman that he knew.

The irony of that thought was not lost on him.

John felt every muscle in his body as blood surged through his heart, heavy and hot. He clenched the gun, sweaty in his palm.

_god not again_

“You. How could you do this,” he seethed.

Mycroft and Sherlock were silent. John could not look over at Sherlock. He didn’t trust himself to look. A year of being apart, a year of not seeing him, hearing his voice, touching him… 

_no. stop._

_jesus, John._

Mary stood up and started to move towards him. “John, I’m sorry. Please. You have to understand—“

“Shut up,” he whispered. He shifted the gun in his palm. His hand was steady.

Mary did not look afraid. Her hand went instinctively to her jacket pocket. John knew what was tucked in there.

_Two can play at this game_

“How. How could you abandon our daughter to Dr. Myers. Hm? A man who works for… Moriarty,” his voice cracking, his jaw clenched tightly around his words. He tried to raise his voice to something more than a whisper. He was beyond furious. He couldn’t-

“It’s not—I didn’t, John.” She moved towards him slowly again. “How much did you hear?”

He almost dropped the gun.

“Stop it.” She was so close to him. If he wanted, he could reach out and touch her. “Even now, Mary? Even now— _after everything_ —“ He felt rooted to the ground. “You’ll lie to my face.”

“Listen to me, John. There’s something else. This is the truth, now. I’m not lying. Our daughter—“

“—is with a murderer, Mary. _How_ could you have done that.”

_how how how_

_how did I love her how did I take her back how did I stay with her_

John was keenly aware of the sound of Sherlock’s breathing.

He decided.

“This is what’s going to happen. I’m going to find Elizabeth. I’m going to find her. Right now. You’re not going to stop me. And you’re not coming with me.” He clicked on the safety and shoved the gun under his jacket, tucking it into the waistband of his jeans. It felt reassuring against his back.

“John, wait a moment. There’s additional information—” Mycroft began, quickly getting to his feet.

“Mycroft,” John moved forward towards him. Sherlock’s silent presence in the room was becoming overwhelming, a weight on his chest. “You’re done telling me what I can and cannot do. I’ve put up with this for far too fucking long.” He shifted his weight, eyes narrowed on Mycroft. “I’m leaving now. You can have your people tail me but do not try to have them stop me. That will not end well.” The gun pressed solidly into him.

A reminder.

_not afraid to use it_

“John.”

For the first time, Sherlock spoke.

The sound of Sherlock’s voice was like a cool touch to John’s forehead, a salve on a burn. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears.

Sherlock spoke quietly. “John. Stop and listen. You don’t know everything and you’re overreacting.”

The cool touch turned hot.

“So. You too?” John’s anger flared. “What did I say last time? Always your way?” He squeezed his eyes shut. “We both know how that’s turned out, don’t we, Sherlock. Not this time.” He open his eyes and turned to look at him.

Their eyes locked.

_I’m back I’m home I’m yours_

“Let me come with you.”

Seven seconds passed in silence.

Eyes still locked.

Mycroft and Mary didn’t exist anymore. He didn’t feel their presence, didn’t hear the murmurs whispered in lowered voices, didn’t sense their eyes drilling holes into him. He didn’t notice his chair still in the sitting room of 221B, didn’t run his eyes over the stacks of his old books that he’d always had been too lazy to come and collect (because that would mean something, some ending to something John never wanted to think about), didn’t see his blue striped jumper that Sherlock had burnt a hole though and said he’d binned (and somehow was still there, now, after all this time, tucked in between two cushions on the sofa). He didn’t hear the faint beeping and buzzing of surveillance equipment.

He didn’t see the tangible remnants of his life as it once was with Sherlock mixed in with the proof of Sherlock’s life lived alone, without him.

None of that mattered. There was only Sherlock. Here, now, and real.

“Alright,” John answered.

 

_____________________________________________________________________

 

_He watched, mesmerised by the small movements of Sherlock’s shoulders, the slow twist of long pale fingers around soft pink skin, the glistening wet trails of saliva and pre-come that seeped out of the sides of his mouth and dripped down the curves of Sherlock’s chin. He watched as Sherlock watched him. They stared at each other._

_God, he wanted him._

_John came before he even realised he was coming. His tensed and shuddered and then flooded Sherlock’s mouth, the physical release of his orgasm overloading his brain. His body felt electric. He hummed._

_The emotional release came soon after._

_I'm in love with you. I need to tell you._

_I can’t._

_Instead, John said, “Now you.”_

_Sherlock pulled his head up, lips wet. “Hm?”_

_“Now you. I want to do you.” John tried to shut off the tellhimtellhimtellhim running through his head. “Lie down.”_

_Sherlock hesitated._

_“John, you don’t have—“_

_“I want to.” He cleared his throat. “Do you back. Let me for you, Sherlock.”_

_He moved to find his pants or something to wipe himself off with. Except, there was nothing to wipe off—_

_Oh god he swallowed, John thought._

_That meant in Sherlock’s mouth, if he kissed him right now, he would taste—_

_He propped himself up onto his elbows. Sherlock had stayed still, crouched where he was, his face resting on the John’s calf. He was quiet._

_“Oi, c’mon.” John gave him a little nudge. “I owe you.” He winked. Sherlock didn’t see. He reached down with an outstretched hand._

_Sherlock looked up and met his eyes. His expression had changed. John didn’t know what that meant._

_“Don’t, John.”_

_John paused. “What?”_

_“You don’t have to ‘do me back’. That’s not what this was about.”_

_John tried to laugh. “Then what was this about, Sherlock? I thought the point of having sex with somebody was for both people to get off.”_

_“That’s what this was to you? Just getting off?”_

_“What? I didn’t mean it like that—christ, Sherlock. I thought it was obvious that I—“_

_Sherlock scrambled up to a sitting position between John’s splayed legs. “That you what, John? Can’t say no to me, no matter what I ask you to do? That you took pity on me and let me suck you off and now you’ve realised that you better ‘do me back’ or else…what?”_

_John pulled his legs back and crossed them, pushing himself up. They were sitting, facing each other, naked on Sherlock’s bed. He could feel his face starting to heat. “That’s not what I want. Jesus, I didn’t_ _take pity on you, Sherlock.” Sherlock didn’t look convinced. “Look, I’m trying, okay? I have a lot of things on my mind at the moment. I have Mary and the baby to think about—“_

_“Oh, yes, thank you. This conversation was definitely missing the inclusion of your pregnant wife.”_

_“Well_ you’re _the one who asked to kiss_ me _,” John hissed._

_“And you just gave in, then?” Sherlock voice was growing louder. “You just gave up and let me do whatever I wanted—even if you didn’t want—”_

_“I wanted to, alright?!” John shifted his weight, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “And I wanted to…do you back. I wanted to do that with you. For you. But you obviously want something else.” He sighed. “I don’t know what you want.” He stood up and started feeling around for his clothes in the darkness._

_Sherlock was silent._

_Tell me you want me, John thought. Tell me to stay. Tell me to leave Mary. Tell me you’re mine and I’m yours and that was how it always was and how it always should be._

_Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly._

_“John, I want you to be happy—”_

_Tellmetellmetellmetellmetellmetellme_

_“—and I think you should go home.”_

_John wanted to say, This is my home._

_Instead he said, “I’ll give your love to Mary.”_

_______________________________________________________________________

 

“Mary! All right!? My god, you just gave birth—“ John rushed over to her. She looked… fine. Healthy. Dressed in soft hospital clothes. He grabbed her hands. No IV. There was something in her expression that he couldn’t place.

“I’m alright, John. Just fine. Feeling great, actually. Elizabeth is…fine. She’s perfect.”

“Where is she? Can I see her?” 

“Um. Here she is….” Mary scrambled into the pocket of her hospital gown for her phone. A grainy image popped up of a newborn baby: cheeks chubby, skin pink, eyes closed. A soft little curl of hair on her forehead. Dark hair.

Hmm.

Ah well.

_She’s perfect._

“So can I see her? She’s in nursery already?” John made to move for the door.

Dr. Myers stood behind them and cleared his throat loudly.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible at the moment, Dr. Watson.” He looked over at Mary expectantly, nodding at her. “Go on.”

“She’s so lovely, John. She is.” Mary pulled him over to sit with her in a pair of uncomfortable hospital chairs tucked into a corner of the room. She clenched her hands in her lap. “And I know you love her so much. As I do, of course. So I think the best thing to do right now is to make sure that she’s safe.”

“Yes…” He waited. Mary swallowed. “What are you getting at?” John felt like the room was getting smaller.

“Remember what we talked about a few weeks ago? About security once the baby was born, how to keep her safe?”

John nodded. “We didn’t decide on anything.”

Mary looked calm. “I’ve made some arrangements so that Elizabeth will be protected. Even better than we could protect her at the safehouse.”

“What?” John couldn’t suppress a laugh. “That’s the whole point of the safehouse. To keep us safe.”

“We aren’t guaranteed anything, John. There’s no way to know what might happen with Moriarty. You’ve been targeted by him before. He strapped a bomb on you, remember. Imagine what he might do to your daughter.”

“What are you saying—”

“You read Mycroft’s latest reports, he’s recruiting more people to work for him now. We can’t trust anyone.”

“So we tear away a newborn child from her parents? From her mother? On the day that she’s born?! Mary, this is ridiculous.”

“Dr. Watson, there’s no reason to be worried.” Dr. Myers had moved over to where John and Mary were sitting and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ll have her soon enough. It’s just for the time being, in order to protect her identity from those who want to hurt her. She’ll be much safer where she’s headed. I’ll take her there myself." 

“And where’s that then?” John couldn’t believe he was hearing this.

Dr. Myers uncrossed his arms and pulled a thin piece of paper out of his jacket pocket, pinched tightly between two fingers. He adjusted the glasses on his nose as he read, squinting slightly.

“Two twenty-one Baker Street? Twenty-one B. Sorry.” He slipped the paper back into his pocket. “I believe you know the man who lives there.”

John was stunned. “Why would Sherlock take her?“

“I thought she would be safer there. He has loads of security, even more than we do. He—he offered even. It was his idea.” Mary had shifted forward in her chair. She was nearly on her knees, hands clasped around John’s now. “She’ll be with Sherlock. Moriarty will never look for her there. It doesn’t make sense and that’s why it makes sense.” She gave him a pitying look. “We’ll see her soon, I promise.”

_Elizabeth Sherlock Watson_

_staying with Sherlock my daughter staying with Sherlock_

_Sherlock_

_“_ His idea? Sherlock’s idea? You’ve been in communication with him?”

“Well, a bit. Through…some of Mycroft’s people of course. It’s been very touch and go. I haven’t seen him or anything, just passing information along.”

Dr. Myers turned toward the door and reached for the handle.

“Wait. Just wait!” John shouted. He stood up, fists clenched. “I need to see her before you take her.”

“John—“

“She’s my daughter!”

Dr. Myers interjected, holding the door open. “Dr. Watson, we’ve already gotten her all sorted so it’s not possible now. We’ll send you regular updates, of course.”

_What did I ever do to deserve this_

Dr. Myers closed the door with a soft click. 

John turned back to look at his wife. His not-an-orphan, not-Mary-Morstan, not-just-a-nurse, not-carrying-his-child wife.

His ex-intelligence-agent, assassin-who-shot-Sherlock, lying-since-the-day-he-met-her wife.

He had been an idiot to burn that flash drive. A blind idiot.

“It’ll be alright, I promise. We’ll see her soon.” Mary tried to reach for a hug.

He didn’t look at her face again. He couldn’t.

 

_____________________________________________________________________

 

_John walked slowly down the length of Baker Street, practically dragging his body along behind his thoughts. The pavement was nearly deserted, with only a few commuters brushing by in silence. In the distance he could see a faint glimmer of peachy pink behind the trees along the horizon. The sunrise. It was beautiful. John hated it._

_“I’ll give your love to Mary”, he murmured under his breath._

_Fuck. Why had he left? Why had he said_ that _, of all things, when it was exactly the opposite of what he wanted to say?_

_“Give your love to me”, he whispered. His heart clenched at the words. Sherlock had given his love to John, and what had John given him back?_

_Well, I tried, he thought. Sherlock wanted me to leave. He realised before I did that it was all a mistake. Maybe he just wanted to do—that—for some reason and see how I reacted. It was all a game. A set-up. A trick. A bloody trick._

_He’s done this before._

_Manipulated me to do something for him. Feel…something for him._

_Why do I like it so much?_

_Fuck._

_A text alert pinged in his pocket. He shoved his hand in to pull out his mobile, the screen bright in the dusty light of the October sunrise._

**_I’m sorry. SH_ **

_John shoved his phone back into his pocket and walked another block. He pulled it out again, stopping to jab at it with his thumbs._

**_What for?_ **

_The response came within seconds._

**_You know what for. SH_ **

_John thought. He typed._

**_It’s a bit difficult when you’re in love with someone and you’re trying to figure things out and you don’t know what the hell they mean half the time._ **

_John forced the phone back into his pocket. No response from Sherlock for six minutes. Finally it pinged again._

**_Like you said. Give my love to Mary. SH_ **

_John didn’t text back. They didn’t talk about it again._

****

_____________________________________________________________________

It was day 225 in the safehouse. John kept a tally of the days in his head and told himself that he wasn’t.

Mycroft had appeared at the house several hours after dinner and now was sat across from John, sipping whisky near the fire in the sitting room. Mary had gone to bed. The various security personnel were stationed at their various posts. The house was quiet and still. John absentmindedly tapped his fingers along the arm of his chair. Mycroft stared into the fire.

“That’s the reason.”

“Sorry, what?” Mycroft’s voice spun John out of his reverie.

“The reason we’re doing all this, John.” Mycroft took a sip of his whisky. “Have I told you?”

“To protect us from Moriarty. To stop us from being targeted again. To keep us away from Sherlock. Et cetera,” John cleared his throat. “Anything else?”

“I told Sherlock at Christmas last year that his loss would break my heart.”

“How candid of you.” John stopped tapping his fingers.

“It’s true.” Mycroft sighed. “I don’t tell him enough." _  
_

“Good to have realised that now.”

“But it’s what _you_ haven’t realised, John,” Mycroft looked melancholy. Truly.

“And what’s that?”

“His loss would break my heart and your loss would break his.”

John laughed. Or he tried to laugh. He wasn’t sure which way it turned out, exactly. “Right. The man fakes his own death in front of me and then lies about it for two years. Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sure I was missed.”

“You were, John. You've no idea.” Mycroft reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his mobile. “Ah, I’d better be off.” He downed the rest of his whisky and stood up, arching an eyebrow. “Someday I hope he tells you.” He paused. “See you very soon.” With that, he was gone.

John sat staring at the fire.

_Someday I hope he tells you_

Half tucked underneath Mycroft’s chair was a small slip of paper that looked like the tattered flap of an envelope. Had it fallen out of a pocket or a file somehow? John hadn’t noticed it before. He reached down and picked it up, turning it over in his fingers. On the back was a hastily scribbled note.

_M-_

_Details on JW._

_Please.  
_

_-SH_

John carefully folded the paper and tucked it into his wallet.

 _This could mean anything_ , he thought.

He knew that it didn’t.

_____________________________________________________________________

 

John could feel Sherlock following him down the stairs. He could hear the soft _whoosh_ of that bloody coat. He could smell him: cigarettes and dry-cleaned clothes and something else John loved but could never name. He could hear each footfall, each inhale, each exhale, each sign and symbol that Sherlock was alive and well and here with him.

John felt his pulse racing. He felt furious. He felt like everything was wrong and everything was right. He felt alive.

They paused in the entryway. Two security personnel were posted at the door, two others stood in front of Mrs. Hudson’s flat. All were scrolling furiously through various screens and murmuring into tiny microphones, fingers pressed tightly against their earpieces. Two men moved to block their exit.

“Sorry but it seems that orders are you’re to stay,” one man said, holding up his hand to John’s chest.

“Sorry but it seems that you’re wrong,” John spat, grabbing and twisting the man’s arm behind his own back so quickly and with so much force that he grimaced, biting back a yelp.

“Out of the way. Now.” Sherlock growled at the other security man. He turned his head to shout back up the stairs. “Mycroft, call off your men!”

“It’s alright, let them go,” came Mycroft’s exasperated voice from upstairs. “Sherlock, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye.

John released his grip on the man, the other hurried out of Sherlock’s presence. Four pairs of eyes stared at them. John readjusted his jacket, feeling for his gun.

“Ready?”

“Ready.” A pause. “John…”

_Breathe John_

The door was slammed behind them. Snow swirled up around their bodies. Both men instinctively glanced up and down the street, shoulders drawn up tight to their ears against the cold. John charged down the pavement, Sherlock on his heels.

“John.”

“This Dr. Myers. What do you know about him?” John shoved his hand into his pocket, pulling out his wallet as they nearly ran down the street. Drunken revelers could be heard spilling out of flats and nearby pubs. “I found this in the safehouse,” he handed Sherlock a small card with _Dr. Benjamin Myers_ printed on the front, “although it’s probably all fake. Could give us a start though.”

“John, um.”

“Or we could try the maternity unit.” He glanced at his watch. He couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of him. They crossed through the intersection to Marylebone Road. “It’s nearly two but we could wait for him. Break in and find some records or something.”

“John.” Sherlock tried again, more forcefully this time. 

“We’re wasting time. Let’s get a cab. Or should we split up? Cover more ground?” John felt that if he kept talking he wouldn’t have to notice the way his heart was pummeling his ribs, the way Sherlock’s breath curled into soft smoke around his cheeks in the freezing night air. The way he seemed smaller. Exhausted. The Belstaff was wrapped tightly around his thin body.

The small tear in the right sleeve, the bottom button missing.

_Breathe John_

“I’ll head to the maternity unit—”

“Wait—”

“—and I’ll text you when I’m there.” 

Sherlock patted his pockets. His eyes widened. “My phone. I left it.” He turned and started to run back to the flat, his coat blowing behind him, little wisps of snow twirling in his wake.

_The bottom button missing_

John scanned the streets ahead. No security tailed them, as least not visibly. Probably for the best. He twisted around again. Of course this had to happen on New Bloody Year’s Eve. No cabs. No sodding cabs when he needed to go rescue his daughter from a sodding murderer. Not just any murderer. Moriarty.

His stomach tried to fight its way up and out his throat. He swallowed.

_What’s taking him so long—_

Suddenly a strangled noise echoed down the street, followed by a slick metal clank and a heavy thud. John stopped and turned in time to see Sherlock, limp and still on the sidewalk, quite a distance from 221B. 

John felt like he’d been punched, wind knocked out of him. For an entire year he had closed his eyes to that image every night. 

_Blood on the pavement_

_No, he’s my friend_

_He’s my friend_

Four men shrouded in black swarmed around Sherlock, lifting him and carrying him quickly to a dark car idling across the road. No one noticed. Just another drunk party-goer, people probably thought, being helped into a cab by his mates.

John squinted. The men carrying Sherlock were the same four as had been posted by the door in the entryway to 221B.

“No no no! STOP!” John shouted, racing back towards Baker Street, reaching under his jacket for his gun. Cotton under his fingertips. Nothing.

_Fuck where’s the fucking gun_

It had clattered to the pavement, the sound softened by the drifting snow. He reached down to grab for it.

Impact. Stars. Then darkness.

 

_____________________________________________________________________

 

_You have missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, blood pumping through your veins…_

_…just the two of us against the rest of the world._

_Yeah, well. Be careful what you wish for._

 

_______________________________________________________________________

 

Something warm and sticky oozed down the side of John’s temple. He forced his eyes open, blinking twice. Blurry. The room was sideways. Tile floor. Cold. Low light. Red and blue doors. Curtains? Weird room. Was it a room?

“Hullo again, Dr. Watson. _John._ Johnny boy. Been a long time, hasn’t it.” 

John felt utterly sick. His pace of his heartbeat surged, his stomach slippery and unsettled. He knew that voice. He’d know it anywhere. Anxiously trying to keep his eyes open, John warily tested his body. Immobile. He was on his side, arms behind his back, the left one pinned beneath his body. His shoulder ached and his head swayed. The sideways room was spinning now. Sherlock. Where was Sherlock?

“You might want to stay awake for this next part.” A hollow laugh.

Where was he? The voice didn’t betray the location of its owner. A rustling noise behind him, then a soft touch on the back of his head. Prodding fingers. Immediately a bolt of stinging pain surged through his body.

John tried his voice. Nothing came out but a pitiful groan. He forced himself to swallow, grimacing through the gritty dryness in his throat.

“Ah. Hurts, does it. I would apologise but that’s not exactly the point of this.” The voice moved farther away, laughing. “He probably tried to tell you but couldn’t get the words out in time. Soooo typical. Boring.”

John let his eyes fall shut to stop the room from spinning. A door opened and closed. He heard muffled voices and the slide of shoes against a wet surface. Something heavy dropped to the ground behind him. A familiar scent drifted over to his body as he began to lose consciousness again.

Cigarettes and dry-cleaned clothes and something else John loved but could never name.


	5. for it is important that awake people be awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tell me a lie  
> I'll be the first to fall  
> Give me an offer, unofferable
> 
> Imagine the warmth  
> In those tiny hands  
> That held on to a penance I didn't deserve
> 
> Unofferable ~ Half Moon Run
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
>  [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/aIDvbQMo2EY)

Sherlock Holmes was sprawled unconscious next to an unconscious John Watson, blood seeping from their bodies into the crevices and cracks in the tile floor surrounding the swimming pool where Carl Powers died, where Moriarty first stood between them all those years ago.

Eyes closed to the world and to the world that still existed between them.

All was quiet. The doors had been locked, guards posted on the outside of each entrance and exit. They were, for the moment, left entirely alone.

 

***

 

Sherlock opened his eyes to Mary’s blue ones staring back at him. He was laying on his side, arms twisted uncomfortably behind his back, his wrists bound tightly together by a nylon zip tie cutting into his skin. Cool tile that stank of disinfectant and chlorine pressed up against his cheek. For a moment, he couldn’t remember what had happened after leaving Baker Street with John.

_John_

_Where’s John_

His head felt like it had been exploded and then stuck back together again rather rudimentarily. The metallic scent of his own blood wormed its way into his nostrils, leaving him feeling dizzy and sick. He could feel it pooling beneath him, soaking into his hair, his scarf, the collar of his coat. Starting to coagulate. Starting to stain.

“I told you, you know. Even back then. But you didn’t listen.”

Sherlock stared at Mary. She was sitting with her legs stretched out in front of her, leaning back against the wall, arms behind her back. She had a bleeding cut above her left eye. The contrast of the deep crimson against her pale skin was striking. There was something hard in her expression, something unreadable as she pursed her lips and set her jaw.

“Do you remember, Sherlock?”

He tried to keep his eyes open. The small room blurred and he blinked. God, his head hurt. A sign above Mary’s head instructed: “Changing room only. Lockers in pool area.” Plastic hooks and shower heads lined the wall on her right, a narrow bench was tucked tightly against the wall on her left.

_Ah, so he thinks he’s being clever. We’re back to where it all started._

“At the wedding. ‘Neither of us were the first’. What did you think I meant?”

He coughed weakly. A few bruised ribs too, then.

“Where’s John.” Sherlock’s throat felt raw. He tried to roll and sit up but the movement was uncomfortable and made his pulse throb in his head. He managed to shift onto his back and laid there for a moment, panting.

“I don’t know. They took him.”

Sherlock’s stomach gave a nauseating lurch. “Agghhnn,” he groaned as rolled back onto his side and pulled himself up into a sitting position. The room spun again, blurring Mary’s face.

“I knew. Well, I suspected.” Her voice was low. “Him and Sholto. I told you we weren’t the first, you and I. Neither of us were the first.” She cleared her throat and paused. “You should have seen John. When you were dead, Sherlock.” Her eyes felt like lasers on his face. “He was destroyed. Completely devastated.”

She leaned forward.

“You had no idea, did you. And then he fell in love with me. He needed me. And when you came back, he just… I knew that he had loved you. I knew that he was close to—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Something bubbled in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach.

_You did this_

_control control control_

He could hear movement on the other side of the door. Mary’s eyes narrowed.

“You haven’t told him, have you.” A thin ribbon of blood trickled down the side of her face. She leaned back and pulled her legs up to her chest.

“Told him what.”

“About Elizabeth. About all this. About you.”

_I couldn’t_

The door was unlocked. It swung open and clanked against the tiled wall as two burly men dragged an unconscious John into the room. His arms too were tightly bound behind him. They dropped him unceremoniously to the ground where his head hit the tile with a sickening smack, leaving a small smear of blood.

“John!” Sherlock tried to scramble over to him on his knees, which earned him a swift kick in the side from one of Moriarty’s men. He toppled over, landing half on top of John’s body. John stirred beneath him.

The other man looked over at Mary and laughed cruelly. “Hullo again, missy. You’re coming with us.” He grabbed at Mary’s shoulders, roughly pulling her up and forcing her out of the room in front of him. Her blue eyes were resigned as she looked back over her shoulder at Sherlock, then down at John.

She knew.

The door slammed shut and was swiftly locked again.

John opened his eyes.

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

_Sherlock tucked the serial killer’s mobile phone deep into his pocket after wiping it clean and smirked at the immobile expression on the man’s face. Lucien Allard. Responsible for no less than fourteen murders. One of Moriarty’s most loyal hit men since 2001. Currently knocked out cold and slumped in a jumbled heap on the ground. And now missing two teeth._

_Sherlock lit a cigarette, stepped over the body, and walked two miles along the Seine back to the dingy hotel that he had been staying in for the past week. The air smelt of dirty river water, wet and salty. It was spring. It had been months and months since he jumped off of a roof and landed in a lie._

_As he walked, he thought about John._

_When he got back to the hotel room he scribbled a note to his brother on the back of an envelope._

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

“John!” Sherlock’s heart hammered in his chest as he leaned over John’s body. Not being able to touch John was agony.

John instinctively gasped, expanding his chest and forcing air deep into his lungs.

“Oh my god.” Sherlock slumped back to the ground behind him.

“Sher—,” John swallowed tightly, grimacing. “Sherlock.” He rolled his head to the side. “Ah fuck, that hurts.” He laid still for a few seconds, then attempted unsuccessfully to twist his arms and release his hands from the zip tie. It sliced into his wrist, little beads of blood springing from his skin.

_He’s alright he’s fine he’ll be fine_

Sherlock realised that he was shaking.

_He’s alright he’s been injured before worse than this he’s alright John’s fine_

“Christ, we’re at the pool.” John craned his neck upwards, looking around with wide eyes. He shifted onto his side and struggled to sit up, arms tight behind his back. “Moriarty was here, Sherlock. He was here and he has Elizabeth.” Looking unsteady, he wobbled to his knees. “Listen. The same security that were in 221B were the ones that knocked us out. He’s infiltrated Mycroft’s people.”

Sherlock sat motionless on the floor. Their blood was smeared over the tiles, over their clothes, over their skin.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was insistent. “Do we have a plan?”

He let his eyes close. This was going to hurt.

“He doesn’t, John.” Sherlock’s own voice seemed small, far away. “He doesn’t have her.”

“He does. I know he does,” John struggled, trying to force the zip tie apart behind his back. “Dammit this fucking thing—”

“John.”

“Bloody hell.” John turned on his knees, spinning so that he was facing the bench along the wall, his back to Sherlock. His wrists were bloody, the white zip tie smeared red. “Come over here.”

“What?” Sherlock blinked his eyes back open.

“The gun’s gone but not my wallet. There’s an army survival tool with a metal blade on it behind my id card. I put it in ages ago. Pull it out.”

_The longer this lasts the worse it will be_

_I have to tell him now_

_soon_

Sherlock twisted around to that they were back to back, both on their knees, legs and feet lined up and slotted together. He reached blindly for John. Their hands brushed against each other for a moment before Sherlock dipped his fingers into the back pocket of John’s jeans. He could feel John’s leather wallet. He could feel the soft denim that lined the inside of John’s pocket. He could feel the warmth of John’s body behind him. He could smell the blood on John’s jumper.

He wanted to cry.

Instead he carefully pulled out the wallet and placed it into John’s open palm. John held it firmly as he flipped it open and poked a finger inside to pull out the flat survival tool. 

Even after a year apart, no words were needed to work together. To anticipate, to work in tandem, to know what the other would do before he did it. They had worked out _Vatican cameos_ years ago. Just in case.

No need to say it now.

John sliced his own zip tie, then Sherlock’s. They both rubbed their wrists and turned around to face each other, slowly climbing to their feet.

“Right. How do we get the hell out of here...” John looked over at the door as he tucked the tool back into his wallet, then the wallet back into his pocket.

_Do it_

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down into the middle of John’s chest.

“Wait, John. Just wait. There’s something… else.”

_Look him in the eye_

Sherlock looked up. He continued. “I couldn’t tell you earlier. At the flat or…before. It’s going to be hard to understand.” He tried to force a deep breath and let it out slowly. It caught in his chest instead. “John, it’s about Elizabeth.”

“What?” John’s jaw clenched.

“Elizabeth isn’t… she’s not…”

“What!?”

Sherlock took a step towards John. He wanted to touch him. He didn’t.

“Mary was lying. She lied the whole time. She was never pregnant, John. Elizabeth never existed. She’s not real.”

John looked as though his hearing had gone off. His face did something between disbelief and shock, then a twitch of his mouth that usually meant someone was putting him over and he knew it. He looked like a thunderstorm, like the sky before it rained.

“Sherlock, _what. the. hell._ Why the _fuck_ would you say—”

“I found out tonight when Mary... I had no idea, John.” He could see John’s pulse beating too fast in his neck, his lips starting to curve into a smile. He sniffed through one nostril. Sherlock forced himself to continue. “I deduced it at your wedding and then she kept up the act. Tonight she came to Baker Street wanting help getting a baby because she thought that was…what you wanted.” He let his voice trail off.

_I’m sorry I’m sorry_

John’s body seemed to be vibrating. His eyes were impossibly dark.

“Just. Just so we’re clear.” John’s voice was dangerous. He shifted his weight, jabbing a finger in Sherlock’s face. “ _If you are lying_ …”. He looked consumed, eyes wild. Rubbed his hand over his face. “Oh my god. _My god_. If you are fucking lying—”

“Why would I lie to you, John?”

_Oh. That was a bit not good._

Suddenly they were on the floor. Sherlock didn’t realise that John had tackled him until John’s knuckles were split open on his chin and his head smacked loudly back against the tiles. John straddled Sherlock’s waist.

_I’ll take it, John. Give me this._

The collision of John’s fist with his skin felt like a kiss. Sherlock’s nose poured blood.

_Hurt me. It’s alright. Let me take this from you. Let me._

John’s thighs clenched tightly around his body, weight shifting, pressing into Sherlock’s bruised ribs and hips.

_I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m yours to hurt. I’m yours._

_I was always yours._

Finally John collapsed against Sherlock’s chest, a choked sob exploding out of him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s back, holding him tight against his body, John’s face buried in his shoulder.

John was heavy in his arms. John was in his arms. It was simple.

Sherlock had no idea of what to do next.

"God, I'm sorry. You didn't--deserve--I'm sorry," John choked out.

They laid there, on the tile floor in a locked changing room next to the swimming pool where little Carl died. Where they had once agreed to die together, if necessary.

Two broken men who breathed into each other’s bodies and waited for it to feel wrong.

It didn’t.

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

_Sherlock pulled the cheap, pre-paid mobile out of his jacket pocket and typed out a text to his brother, glancing around as he did so. The man sat across the aisle from him was engrossed in a men’s magazine. Office worker. Recently divorced. Compulsive gambler and cheat. Hadn’t even noticed the woman across from him steal a fiver out of his bag. Idiot._

**_On the 4.30 out of Dresden. Identities of two co-conspirators confirmed. Need lodging for tomorrow evening. And not like the last one. SH_ **

_He pushed send and tucked the phone back into his pocket, looking out of the train window at the mid-winter sun setting over the hazy skyline of the passing city. Another city, another train, another sunset spent alone._

_A tinny beep forced him to look down again at his phone. A text from Mycroft._

**_The hostel on Labska near the Belgrade train lines. Phone with contacts will be waiting for you there. MH_ **

_A short, blond man walked down the center aisle, brushing past Sherlock’s seat. He was wearing a striped jumper. Blue._

_Sherlock tried not to pretend it was John, headed to the next train car to get them tea._

________________________________________________________________________

 

“I named her after you.”

“I know.”

John’s voice was muffled against Sherlock’s shoulder. He lifted up his head and shoulders, rolling away off to the side and breaking the seal of Sherlock’s arms around his back, getting to his feet. The absence of John against his chest felt wrong. Seeing John’s pain written on his face made Sherlock’s bones ache.

He would do anything for him.

Take another bullet. A thousand bullets.

If John asked him to dig his own grave, he would.

“Because of what you said.” John’s voice was constricted. His hands were still curled into fists.

“I know.”

Sherlock sat up.

“You decided this, Sherlock.”

He wasn’t expecting that. “Sorry, what?”

“When you jumped off of fucking Barts.”

“John.”

“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t jumped. Don’t make excuses about it again. Not this time.” John hedged, exhausted, his eyes burning into Sherlock’s.

“I didn’t—”

“No. This is a conversation where you and I are going to say things that are true.” John’s voice was almost a whisper now, thick with emotion and rubbed raw. His jaw was tight. “You left me for two years. You came back and I had Mary. Because you were dead. I _chose_ her, right? Isn’t that what you said? She’s the way she is—a bloody assassin—because _I chose her_? She lied to me for a year about having baby daughter because _I chose her._ I can't fucking believe this. Hm. My fault, again. Like always.”

“I’m sorry, John. Listen, I underestimated—”

“Shut up, Sherlock. I know what you’re going to say.”

“No.”

“You’re going to lie. Or make a fucking joke.”

“No, John. This is the truth. Listen to me.”

“I can’t do this anymore, Sherlock. What am I to you?”

Sherlock got to his feet. They stood across from each other.

_it’s time_

_you know that it's time  
_

_who knows what’s going to happen_

_you let the chance pass once_

_don’t let it happen again_

_don't lose him again_

“Whatever you think you are, you’re more than that.”

“What.”

“You’re the beginning and the end of it for me.”

“Sherlock.”

“John, about Barts. I fell—“

“Yeah, I know.”

“I fell—

“Off the roof—

“ —in love with you.”

_oh my god_

_I told him_

_This is it_

“I didn’t know then. When I jumped. ”

John blinked.

Sherlock blinked.

“Those two years weren’t easy, John. Or this year. I hated every minute.”

Sherlock blinked.

John blinked. "I never said they were easy. I never said you liked it."

“John. I don’t know who I am without you.”

John blinked.

Sherlock blinked.

The world exploded.

“I’ve been trying the best that I can, alright.” John’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper now. But steady. “All I ever wanted was you. Always you.”

The world exploded into perfect pieces.

They breathed in, together.

“Touching, really, but it’s too late for all that.”

Neither of them had noticed Jim Moriarty standing in front of the open door.

“Come along, boys. Don’t want to be late for your own goodbye do.”


	6. following the wrong god home we may miss our star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They won't know who we are  
> So we both can pretend  
> It's written on the mountains  
> A line that never ends
> 
> As the devil spoke we spilled out on the floor  
> And the pieces broke and the people wanted more  
> And the rugged wheel is turning another round
> 
> Dorian ~ Agnes Obel
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
> [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/HJzp2SRs0Ak)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for descriptions of violence, blood, injury -- also a brief reference to suicidal thoughts.

“I _love_ the looks on your faces, I really do. But then you’re always good at giving me gifts, the both of you.” A smirk. “Mm. Although I suppose given the occasion, we really should have a little gift _exchange_.”

An impeccably dressed Jim Moriarty stepped forward, flanked by two huge beefed-up men with crew cuts and earpieces, both carrying massive black guns, both dressed in suits that looked slightly less impeccable. One had a large smear of blood across his sleeve; the other had a large tear down the thigh of his trousers. Both men were sweaty and breathing hard, broad chests heaving.

John recognised the one with the blood from the entryway at Baker Street. He had been at the safehouse, posted outside for a regular evening shift. The other one he knew from photos in one of Mycroft’s files.

“Ah. I see you’ve freed yourselves,” Moriarty yawned, surveying the slashed and bloodied zip ties on the floor behind them. “Shoddy job with your pat downs, boys,” he said, turning to his hired men. “You can find a gun but not a blade in a wallet. Wasn’t that it, John? The army doctor. So prepared.”

John felt his jaw clench.

“I’d say better luck next time but there won’t be a next time.”

He could feel Sherlock’s body stiffen beside him, eyes narrowed at Moriarty’s repugnant grin. For a moment, nobody moved. Tension hung in the air, heavy and nauseating.

John couldn’t think.

_Mary lied_

_Elizabeth isn’t real_

_Sherlock told me he fell in love with me_

_Where the fuck is Mary_

_What are we going to do_

_Elizabeth isn’t real_

_Mary lied_

_What did I say back to Sherlock_

_What did I fucking say_

_Do they have Mary too_

_Where is she_

_I am going to fucking murder Moriarty_

_Sherlock told me he fell in love with me_

_Moriarty’s going to kill us_

_We’re going to die here_

_This is it_

_This is really it_

“I'm sorry to be late, Jim. I was just…negotiating some information. She understands our view better now.” A thin man with wire-rimmed spectacles stepped gingerly into the room beside Moriarty. He folded his hands in front of him and squinted at John and Sherlock.

Moriarty smiled. “Sherlock. John. You’ve met Dr. Benjamin Myers. He’s been helping us play this little game of ours.”

“Yes. For quite a long time, it seems.” Sherlock finally spoke. His voice gave every indication of being steady but his mouth was tensed tight, narrowed eyes piercing, his expression determinedly cool and vague. John could sense a tremor behind his assuredness, a crack in his armour.

A lone drop of blood fell from the pinky finger on Sherlock’s right hand and left a little crimson kiss on the dingy tile. His hand was shaking.

 _How long has he been like this_ , John thought, _and how long have I not noticed._

“Yes. This is what it’s all been for, isn’t it. All these years of playing cat and mouse. The end of our _game_. The big finale.” Moriarty’s voice was smooth, silken. Serpentine. His coal-black eyes gleamed disturbingly in the bright florescent light of the changing room. “The gift exchange.”

“Of course. And we’re starting where it all started.” Sherlock’s voice sounded off.

Moriarty beamed. “Finishing it here too, my dear.”

“Gift—exchange. I don’t understand,” John choked out, clenching his fists automatically. He could feel the blood rushing to his head, pumping a rhythm through his wounds.

“As usual.” Dr. Myers cleared his throat, a raspy, papery sound. “This is largely going to depend on you, John,” he breathed. “You’re going to give Jim a gift, and you’re going to give Mary a gift, and you’re going to give even Sherlock here a gift. And we’re going to give you one too.”

“What—”

“You’ve had some bad news,” Moriarty interrupted. “That _wife_ of yours. You always pick winners, John. First a sociopath, then a psychopath. Did Sherlock finally tell you?” Moriarty crept closer, icy hands reaching out for John’s injured ones, grabbing them before he could pull away. “Ah yes. You _do_ know. Split knuckles.” He turned his head to inspect Sherlock’s bloodstained face, laughing. “And Sherlock’s nose. Hmm. You know, it would have been easier to just unzip his trousers. You’ve been wanting to for long enough.” John tore his hands from the vice grip, the vein in his forehead bulging. Moriarty pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped John’s blood off of his hands, and then leaned back over his shoulder, unconcerned, nodding his head towards his men. “Doesn’t look broken though. Take care of that.”

It happened too quickly for John or Sherlock to react. The men stepped around them in an instant, the man with the bloody sleeve wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock’s body while the bulky man with the torn trousers moved forward and nailed Sherlock square in the nose with the butt of his gun. A sickening crack of bone and then a spray of fresh blood spattered man’s face as Sherlock simultaneously let out a startled, heart-wrenching cry. _  
_

John’s vision went white.

“Alright then! Party has officially started,” Moriarty winked. “You’re up next, Johnny Boy.”

 

_________________________________________________________

 

_“Oi. I’ll have ‘nother.”_

_The bartender looked over at John. Six disgracefully and abhorrently empty pint glasses presented their sudsy remains in front of him. A red glass ashtray full of cigarette butts balanced precariously between John’s elbow and the edge of the wooden bar. The remains of a shredded napkin were tucked beneath the crumpled cigarette packet like padding for an offering._

_John moved his elbow. The ashtray shattered on impact, the concrete floor coughing up a small cloud of ash. Broken pieces of glass threw red shadows—_

_Just the way Sherlock’s skull—_ stop it.

_Sherlock was dead._

_Sherlock had been dead for two months._

_“Sss…sorry. Didn’t mean to,” John slurred. “I’ll…I’ve got it…” He bent his head and leaned over his shoulder to look down, weight shifting, going wonky, starting to topple over to the side._

_“Right. You’re done, mate.” The bartender crossed around the side of the bar in an instant and grabbed John under his arms, hoisting him up and out of his seat and nudging the barstool out of the way in one fluid movement. “I think it’s time we call a cabbie, eh?” He shadow-walked John over to the entrance of the pub, where a group of uni students were crowded and talking animatedly. Football was just starting on the telly behind the bar._

_“But…m’tab…and pub’s not closed ‘til…” John tried to focus his eyes on the watch on his wrist. Cracked glass there too, from when—_ stop it.

_“Don’t worry ‘bout it. We’ll settle up later.” The bartender was holding John up with one arm and dialing the pub’s mobile with the other. “Right, 20 minutes then. Ta,” he said into the phone. Tossing it back on the table, he started to elbow John past the group of students. “Let’s get you outside to wait for the cab, John.”_

_John squinted at him. “Y’know my—“_

_“It’s your fifth time in here this week, mate, and it’s only the fourth day of the week.” The door opened and they stepped outside. The evening air felt blessedly cool on John’s face. “Alright, sit down then. Cabbie’ll be right here in a minute.” He lowered John onto a bench outside the pub beneath some windows, paused slightly and then knelt down beside him, a worried crease making its way into his forehead. “And mate, I know what’s happened to ya. I know it’s gotta be rough, seeing your… him… well, you know."  
_

_John managed to force his eyes to focus on the bartender’s face. He was sure if he opened his mouth he would either be sick or say something he would regret. Or maybe not regret. He opened his mouth. It was dry as a desert. Nothing happened._

_“Anyway. I know it’s not my place to say but you’re on the road to killing yourself, mate. Don't think drinking at the pub here nearly every night until you’re completely pissed is gonna be the answer--”_

_John didn’t hear the rest of what the man was saying. He was stumbling away from the bench, away from the pub, away from the fucking awful bartender who thought he had any fucking right to say anything to John about...  
_

_He had managed to get down the street and crossed through three intersections (horns honking, got told to toss off twice, didn’t hear them) before he realised where he was headed._

_Baker Street._

_Oh sod my fucking bloody awful life, he thought. ‘Course. ‘Course I have to be pissed out of my head and still manage to find my way here. Sod this. Need to get a cab._

_He kept walking._

_When he reached the front door, he stared at the brass knocker as though he had never seen it before. It gleamed like an omen in the moonlight. He held his breath. No sounds from inside, so Mrs. Hudson must be out. John hadn’t been to Baker Street since two days after Sherlock died. He’d come back from Bart’s, sat in his chair for two days straight, stood up, threw some clothes in a bag, and left. That was it. He’d stayed with Mike Stamford for the first few weeks and now was staying alone in a cheap, bland bedsit on the other side of London._

_His life had returned to what it was before Sherlock. Almost exactly, actually. He spent his days alone, ignored people’s attempts to interact with him, ate less than he should, drank more than he should. His Sig was once again tucked into a drawer, though this time he used the drawer of the bedside table._

_It made him feel better, knowing it was close. He told himself it was for self-defense, in case anyone tried to break in or something. He didn’t bother to think of an answer when he asked himself if it made him feel better for any other reasons._

_What was the point in thinking of answers, anymore._

_His eyes went blurry and he blinked._

_Should I go inside? What if Mrs. Hudson is home and I’m forced to see her again, and we have to talk about it, or she makes me go upstairs? I can’t. I can’t. I can’t._

_John whirled around too quickly and his head spun. He plopped down on the front steps, rested his head in his hands, choking on something caught in his chest and gagging, forcing down a swallow bitter and rough in his throat._

_I can’t. I can’t._

 _I can’t._

_He didn’t notice the mechanical movement of the nearest CCTV cameras, followed by a twirl of dark coat and flash of shiny car pulling away across the street. He didn’t hear the small ping of a text sent from one government-issued mobile to another, tucked into a twirl of another dark coat, thousands of miles away._

_A ping that said in so many words:_

_No. He’s not okay._

 

_________________________________________________________

 

The lower half of Sherlock’s face was covered in blood. His eyes, wide and dazed, moved slowly as he dropped to his knees. The cupid’s bow had caught a tiny pool of blood that trembled when he tried to open his mouth and adjust his jaw. A heavy moan resonating from deep in his chest escaped from between his parted lips. The vulnerability of his body was betraying him. His eyes were soft. He gazed blankly at John.

John fully expected to explode from the sheer amount of rage he felt coursing through his body.

“ _I’m going to kill you_.” Every muscle in his body was on _fire_.

The two other security guards joined them in the changing room, the four bulky men immediately closing ranks about Sherlock and John. Dr. Myers had disappeared. Unable to contain himself, John wildly grabbed at the gun tucked into the waistband of the man closest to him. Mistake. Within seconds his knees smacked hard onto the tile floor, shooting bolts of pain hurtling up his spine. A kiss of cold metal was pressed against the side of his skull.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” the man growled.

John tried to look over at Sherlock.

Even after everything. It can’t end like this. It can’t.

Moriarty was whispering something to the tallest man with the torn trousers, conferring on what would happen next. The gun was still pressed to John’s head, but no one was listening.

Sherlock made a low noise that sounded like a sob and a moan. He tried to spit out a mouthful of blood but instead it dribbled weakly down his chin.

“John.”

“Sherlock. I’m going to kill him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” John couldn’t catch his breath. “Don’t.”

“This will continue until one of us is dead—” Sherlock choked. His voice was muddied with blood.

“I am going. To _kill_ him.”

“—probably you—“ His voice was rising.

“Sherlock.”

“—probably both of us—“ Panic. He didn’t have a plan.

“ _Shut up Sherlock_." 

“—and that is unacceptable to me,” he sputtered.

“Well not to me,” John forced through clenched teeth.

“W—what?”

"He has us both." He tried to suck air into his lungs and calm his breathing. His pulse was a hot drumbeat in his throat. “You didn’t let me say goodbye to you last time.”

Sherlock let out a sob.

Moriarty’s black eyes peered down into the circle.

“Alright boys. Here’s how it works. First we’re going to have a nice little chat with your wife, John. Then we’re going to have some fun. On your feet.”

They were escorted out of the changing room.

Mary was sitting on the far side of the pool, her toes dipped in the water.

John’s gun was nestled like a baby in her arms.

The water in the pool was still.

She smiled weakly. Blood ran down the side of her face into the corner of her mouth.

 

_________________________________________________________

 

_“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Doctor…?”_

_John handed over the empty prescription pad to the nurse standing in the doorway to his office. She was petite and pretty, short blond hair, blue eyes bright and cheerful, pink lips and pink cheeks. She looked self-assured. Charming. She made him think of sunshine. Of broken bones that somehow split your skin but didn’t hurt._

_“Uh, Watson. John Watson.” He smiled softly. “Please just… call me John.”_

_“Sure.” She returned his smile. “I’m new. Obviously. Just started this week actually.” She suddenly looked flustered. “I… heard from Laura about what happened to you. I’m so sorry. That’s just awful.” Her bottom lip arranged itself into an endearing pout, a little crease appearing on the middle of her forehead._

_John felt the familiar jolt of pain somewhere behind his ribs followed by the familiar dull ache in the back of his throat. “Yeah. It was.” He was used to being asked about it. He didn’t know what to say anymore._

_“I just wanted to say that I know what it’s like to lose someone like that. Suddenly. When you’re not ready to lose them.” She reached out and rested her hand on John’s arm. Her touch was warm and gentle. Reassuring. John didn’t notice that he leaned into it. He didn’t want to think about the last time he leaned into a touch._

_“Thanks.” He found himself relaxing. She had that effect, somehow. She moved her hand away._

_“Well. I’ll be right back with another prescription pad for you.” She smiled again and started to turn, heading back into the corridor._

_“Wait, sorry. You never said your name?”  
_

_“Oh right!” She laughed. Her eyes sparkled. “Mary. I’m Mary.”_

________________________________________________________________

 

“Jesus, you look terrible.” Mary kicked her feet out of the water, the sound of splashing echoing sharply against the tiled walls. She quickly pulled herself to standing and cocked the Sig.

Jim Moriarty and his four security men had escorted Sherlock and John out of the small, blood-smeared changing room into the pool area, the seven of them standing in a loose v-formation facing Mary’s end of the pool with Moriarty at the point. Sherlock was roughly restrained by two of the men, John by the others, their arms twisted once again tightly behind their backs. Dr. Myers was sitting nonchalantly in a pool chair surrounded by several other men, legs crossed out in from of him like he was watching a football match. Surrounded by snipers, looked like, judging by their sighted rifles.

John had a ridiculous moment of wondering if any of them had been here before. The first time.

“Mary. Is that really necessary?” Jim Moriarty strode towards her, calm as ever, flawless black hair gleaming under the low lights. “Dr. Myers said we had worked out our little problem.”

“We haven’t.” She raised her arm. Her knuckles were stretched white against the inky black gun tight in her hand. “I still love him, Jim. I can’t do it. I won’t.”

Moriarty laughed. Another sharp echo against the tiles. “For the love of god, if we counted all the people who are willing to die for John Watson’s _cock_ —hm, might have to have a taste of it myself, actually.” He laughed again. “Look at me, double entendres.” He smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket with both hands. “When did I become so _bor-ing—_ ”

“ _SHUT UP!_ ” John roared. Instantly three laser sights landed on his chest as the men restraining him wrenched his arms back farther, painfully twisting his bad shoulder.

“Oh relax,” Moriarty rolled his eyes at his men. “He’s harmless. Though I will be a bit disappointed if his lying wife doesn’t kill him with his own illegal gun in front of the pathetic man who loves him. Would have been good.” Sherlock made a small noise indistinguishable from a whimper. His nose was still bleeding, but some blood had started to coagulate and dry on his face, leaving dark clots under his nostrils before tracking down in lighter trails over this throat. A sprawling purple-blue bruise was already forming across his cheeks and under his eyes. His top lip was split. “Don’t worry, Sherlock. We’ll go with Plan B.”

At that, something heavy and wrapped in wires and weighted battery packs was tugged down over John’s head. He tried to push against it with his shoulders, turn and duck his head away but he was useless against the force of the weight. His arms were shoved through two holes neatly cut out in the sides.

A vest.

A vest made of Semtex.

A vest made of Semtex with no zipper.

A vest made of Semtex with no zipper and no escape.

Just like in his dream.

“Oh and let’s—? What we discussed?” A cloth gag was shoved into John’s mouth and tied around the back of his head, with a struggling sound from Sherlock indicating one was forced into his mouth as well. Sherlock. With a broken nose, blood streaming down the back of his throat, a bruised, possibly broken jaw—he wouldn’t be able to breathe for long. He would choke. He would suffocate.

_I’m going to kill Moriarty_

_I’M GOING TO KILL HIM_

John forced himself to breathe through his nose.

_think_

_think_

_think_

_can’t rely on Sherlock_

_he’s hurt_

_think_

_think_

“So.” Moriarty clapped his hands together. “Now that we’re all properly dressed for the party -- not quite as _private_ as that stag do, sorry boys -- let’s have that little chat before we get to the good stuff.” He turned back to Mary, her arm wavering for a split second before she clenched the gun even tighter. “Go on then. Tell John.”

“He knows already. Sherlock told him. I thought he wanted it. I did it out of love—” Her voice was starting to waver just a bit.

Moriarty sighed. “DON’T be so _obvious_. This is getting ridiculously tedious.” He crept closer to her, predatory. “I don’t mean your fake baby, Mary, which by the way is _hilarious._ I mean tell him what we’re getting him for his gift.”

“What—”

“His gift, Mary. Though I never said he was going to like it.” Moriarty moved even closer, her hand with John’s gun nearly pressed up against his chest. “I tried to give him a gift with that A.G.R.A. memory stick. Someone gave that to you, yes? And told you to give that to John in case your cover was blown, someone whom you believed worked for Mycroft Holmes, perhaps? Too bad dear old Mr. Holmes isn’t here to protect you now.” He chuckled. “The Ice Man.”

Mary stared at him. 

“That little teeny-weeny memory stick. All that information about your _wet jobs_ , hmm, Mary? Quite the job, killing the prime minister of the Czech Republic and making it look like a suicide. The leader of that military coup in Colombia. Oh and that Russian actress, forget her name. Someone must have paid you quite a lot for that one. Too bad her lover was chummy with Charlie Magnussen. But well done. You’re good at faking suicides, Mary. Sherlock could have used your help.”

Sherlock seemed to be having trouble breathing. His chest was straining against each inhale and exhale, respirations thick and gurgled as he tried to force air through his broken nose. Instead he was starting to hyperventilate. John didn’t notice his own breathing speeding to match Sherlock’s.

“You hoped John wouldn’t read it. That he would _trust you_ , the man with trust issues. And he did. So he didn’t. And Johnny Boy here, so _brave,_ so _loyal_ , took care of it for you.”

_fuck_

_think_

_do something_

_fucking DO SOMETHING_

“Frankly, I don’t give a toss about memory sticks. The last one we got all excited over ended up at the bottom of this pool.” Moriarty turned and gave a pointed look at Sherlock over his shoulder and then looked back at Mary. “But it would have been _fun_ … to destroy you, and then destroy John—” he turned and slowly sauntered over to Sherlock “—and then destroy _my prize_.” He reached a pale white finger up to Sherlock’s horrendously broken nose and touched the tip.

Sherlock winced but his blue-green eyes stayed trained like lasers on Moriarty’s face, conveying the convoluted Sherlockian sentiments of _my ego has skyrocketed, let me assure you_ and _fuck you, you moron._ He tried to reset his shoulders to ease the pressure on his chest. The men restraining him responded by pulling tighter, creating a dangerous bulge at Sherlock’s shoulder under his coat which forced out from his lips a small sound seemingly made against his will. If they pulled any further Sherlock’s shoulder would be dislocated. The humerus would simply pop out of the joint.

Moriarty pressed the front of his body against Sherlock’s torso and slowly rolled his hips. “Hmmm. We’ve waited a long time for this.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “ _And now everyone gets to watch_.” Sherlock tried to spit out his disgust through his gag, which made him choke and cough. Except he couldn’t cough. He couldn’t breathe.

“Nnhhh! ’Ee caah bree!” John tried to shout through his own gag. “Sss’op!!”

Moriarty burst into a slimy laugh, pulling off of Sherlock’s body. “Marvellous.” He continued laughing. “Really. Ah… thank you John. Bless you.” He wiped tears from the creases of his black eyes. “Alright boys. Cut them loose. They don’t have anywhere to go. Plus I’m sure John has some things he’d like to say.”

The gags were swiftly untied as their arms were freed from behind their backs. Sherlock sucked in a huge gasp of air and dropped to a knee spewing more blood and saliva as one man clung to the wool of the Belstaff, effectively yanking it up and off of his shoulders and arms and hurling it to the side so that it slid softly against the tile floor, coming to rest in a crumpled heap under the red curtain of a changing stall behind them. The sudden movement toppled Sherlock forward onto the other knee, forcing him to catch himself with his hands to avoid smacking his head onto the tile.

Oh of all things.

This—watching Sherlock being roughly stripped down to just a white button down shirt, robbed of his _stupid, fucking, insufferable, ridiculous coat that John may have slept under loads of times when he was pissed on the sofa after a night out at the pub and that John may have also buried his face in under the pretense of being so pissed he didn’t know what he was doing and that John associated so closely with Sherlock that Sherlock without it meant that things were wrong and bad and bad things meant that John needed to fix them_ —this, _this_ made John’s throat clench and squeeze closed.

He knew that if he didn’t do something quickly the love of his life would possibly die. No. _Would_ die.

John looked across the pool into the blue eyes of someone who was not the love of his life and prepared himself.

 

_________________________________________________________

 

_John heard the taps in the en suite bathroom turn on and off. He was sprawled on the bed, shoddy mystery novel propped up on his belly with one hand as he wearily rubbed the back of his neck with the other. A pillow was wedged behind his back. Mary’s lavender robe spooled next to him on the duvet. The safehouse was still. Quiet. Hateful._

_god I’m starting to sound like Sherlock_

_John’s heart gave a ping._

_“John?”_

_Mary’s blond head poked out of the slightly ajar door. “Could I have my robe?”_

_“And what’s preventing you from coming over to get it?” John didn’t look up from his book. He tried not to sound snappy. He sounded snappy.  
_

_“It’s just—I’m going to have a shower and I’m not dressed.”_

_“And?”_

_“And I don’t exactly want one of our handlers to see me strutting around in the nude, thank you.”_

_“Mary—“_

_“You know there are probably cameras in here. This is Mycroft, after all.” She was starting to sound snappy too. John couldn’t remember the last time they had talked to each other and not sounded snappy._

_He groaned as he threw the book to the side (somehow reading these things wasn’t as enjoyable when Sherlock wasn’t there to ruin the plot via book jacket deductions) and sat up to grab Mary’s robe. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and shuffled over to the bathroom door, back and shoulders tight and protesting. Mary snatched it from his hands._

_“Thanks.” She made to close the door._

_“Hold on then, I need a wee.”_

_“John, c’mon—“ Mary tucked her body behind the door._

_“Mary, it’s just a piss.” He pushed back against it._

_“Jesus, John!”_

_“What?"  
_

_“I’m—I’m not feeling so tidy, alright? Just wait ‘til I’m finished. Or go downstairs. Please?” she added. Her eyes looked so blue._

_The mother of his child. Blue eyes. He felt next to nothing when he looked in them._

_“Fine.”_

_She shut the door._

_He trudged down the stairs to use the loo off the sitting room. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his wife naked._

 

_________________________________________________________

 

Mary had dropped her arm down to her side, the hand holding John’s gun loosened with the weight of it, still dangerous and solid in her palm. Her voice was soft and subdued.

“Go on then.”

“ _You_.”

John thought back to that first meeting in the hallway of the surgery, to the first time they kissed after a terrible curry dinner, to the first time they fucked on the sofa in her flat, to the first time he’d thought about asking her to marry him, to the first time she’d laid eyes on Sherlock and John couldn’t tell why she liked him and realised later that night that she should’ve done more to _be on his side, thank you very much_ and instead she’d only made things worse.

John tried to steady the erratic drumming of his pulse and gather his thoughts. This was it. It came down to this moment. 

“ _You._ I don’t even know you.” He forced down a swallow. “I thought I loved you once. But I loved a lie. Not _you_. Never. _You_.”

Mary looked wearily resigned but her voice was still desperate. “I know.”

“Johnny boy, we _are_ on a bit of a timetable here. If you could speed things up a bit.” Moriarty’s eyes flashed down to Sherlock, who was still breathing laboriously on all fours. “That is, unless you’d prefer to see him die slowly”—his face warped into a psychotic grin—“which means we’re more _alike_ than you’ve ever let on, John…”

“Just once. Will you _shut up. SHUT UP!_ ” John flung his hands around Moriarty’s throat and instantly felt the press of a rifle jabbing at his ribs between the Semtex packs on his vest and one placed resolutely at the base of skull.

“John John John. Brave, as always. The consummate idiot, as always.” Moriarty gently placed his hands on top of John’s, still around this throat. “If you want to go out this way, be my guest. We’ll all go with you.”

“John!” Mary’s voice echoed from across the pool.

“John. Stop.” Sherlock breathed from the ground.

Christ. _Sherlock._ He hadn’t spoken this whole time. Sherlock: the most observant man in the world, the man who would outlive God in order to have the last word. His face was ashen and pale, nose still slowly bleeding, eyes half closed.

_still bleeding_

_why is he still bleeding_

He had lost a lot of blood. Way, way too much blood. _Posterior epistaxis can lead to haemorrhaging, John thought._

If this lasted much longer, Sherlock would die.

As though he was reading his mind, Moriarty laughed. “Sherlock already died once, John. You want to help him along again? ”

“He didn’t die. That was…” A beat. His hands dropped from around Moriarty’s throat. “What?”

“Oh _but he did_. Clinically dead for one minute and seventeen seconds thanks to your wife. Miraculously restarted his own heart. Another miracle just for you, Johnny boy. Pity he’s all out.”

Moriarty moved his hand and for a wild moment John thought he was going to caress his face. Instead, he pressed a tiny button on top of the right shoulder of the Semtex vest. At once a darkened timer beeped to life and starting counting down minutes.

1 minute and 30 seconds, to be exact. 1:29. 1:28.

Everything happened somehow slowly and all at once. The sounds of pistols cocking, doors slamming and feet shuffling down the viewing balcony bleachers, Mary grabbing Dr. Myers by the shoulders and pressing John’s gun to his head, the heavy body of one of the security men hitting the pool deck with a thud as Sherlock pulled himself upright and raised his hand clenching the man’s gun over John’s shoulder and into Moriarty’s face. 

“Apologies for my tardiness, little brother,” Mycroft called from the viewing balcony. He had a dull black bulletproof vest over the top of his three-piece tweed suit but otherwise looked unfazed. At least ten snipers surrounded him, weapons pointed down to the pool. Thirteen heads moved synchronously up to the balcony to gaze at him, but one head stayed put.

“Your presence—is unfortunately greatly appreciated—at this moment, Mycroft,” Sherlock choked out as he stared into Moriarty’s black eyes. John could feel the heat of his body behind him. “Though the trust placed in your Special—Forces people was obviously ridiculously—unfounded.” John heard him trying to swallow down blood between words.

“Again, apologies. Thought we’d sussed them out but I suppose you can’t trust anyone who will spy on people for money.” He looked over at Mary, who was still holding Dr. Myers hostage in her arms. “My dear girl. Look what your lies have done.”

Sherlock inched the gun closer to Moriarty’s face.

1:04. 1:03. 1:02.

“Sherlock. The timer.” 

“It’s alright, John.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

0:59. 0:58.

“ _Sherlock. Find the off switch.”_

Moriarty grinned. “John’s going to give everyone his gift now.”

Three sets of hands shoved Sherlock out of the way and picked John up and walked him backwards, his feet scrambling to catch on anything on the tile floor, finding nothing, seeing nothing but Sherlock’s face farther and farther away from him, until a loud splash and the sound and thud of water rushing into his ears told him he was underwater. Florescent lights blurred and swirled into shadows over his head, chlorine burning his eyes as his forced his lungs to be still. 

The vest was weighted. He would drown.

Panic bubbled in his blood. He tried to kick up but somehow his legs wouldn’t work. All of his muscles were straining against the solid weight of the vest. His mind was screaming but his body was starting to shut down, lungs burning, brain fuzzy. He clenched his eyes tight and tried to concentrate. _Swim, John, I have to get to him, I have to. Moriarty will kill him. C’mon John. Swim swim swim swim._

A single thought came next.

_I never told him that I love him._

John was drowning. He had been drowning for an eternity—

_this is it_

_I never told him_

_I never_

—when he felt strong hands pull him from the water. Gasping for air, he sputtered at the surface of the pool before his body was laid out on the pool desk. The vest was heavy on his chest as he forced his hands to his eyes to rub out the stinging chlorine. _Inhale, exhale, breathe John, inhale, dammit, you can’t breathe unless you inhale._

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Thank god.”

Seaglass blue ones peered out of a bloodstained face and returned his gaze with a mixture of panic and relief. Christ, how he loved those eyes.

“John—?”

0:22. 0:21. 0:20.

He stared at Sherlock’s mouth. He wanted to put his mouth on it and leave something there.

_he has to know_

_before—_

“Sherlock. I l—” He glanced down at blinking lights on his right shoulder. “ _Fuck_. The timer. It’s going—it’s still going—”

Sherlock’s pale hands scrambled across the surface of the vest as he bent over John’s body.

“There’s—I can’t find—there’s no off—“

Multiple gunshots rang out, the reverberations ricocheting off of the sleek tile walls. John heard a bullet whiz past his head and nick the corner of the timer. Distant bone-chilling cries of pain and the unmistakable sound of ammunition puncturing flesh filled his ears. Sherlock’s body was mostly covering his as they lay sprawled on the wet tile, his head angled to the side. Somehow a handgun became lost from its owner and slid towards them across the deck, both of them scrambling for it with outstretched hands but John was able to snatch it and fired blindly towards where Moriarty had been standing minutes before, then fired more rounds across the pool, reaching behind Sherlock’s back, to where Dr. Myers had been sitting— _and Mary—Mary had been over there too—_ and he knew it was reckless, he knew it was completely desperate and stupid to be firing unsighted live rounds into a pool room that was completely covered in tile but Sherlock was on top of him—he had to—he had to provide cover for Sherlock—he was vulnerable—

Suddenly John felt a huge burst of pressure at his shoulder and looked down to see the timer had been blown, split right through the centre.

0:07. 0:07. 0:07.

He looked up again.

He watched a bouquet of crimson blossom through the shoulder of the perfectly pressed white shirt hovering above him.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. 

_no_


	7. though we could fool each other, we should consider--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wind shook the kiss from your mouth  
> Before I could learn whose twin I was  
> Your face familiar like a light in the water  
> Just your touch could cure my lonesome blood
> 
> You let go of everything you had  
> And everything got left here waiting for what comes next  
> The state of things is tied to me  
> And I've been careless I think too much
> 
> I want to lie still near you I want to  
> The wind shook the kiss from your mouth  
> Before I could learn whose twin I was
> 
> Twins ~ Gem Club
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
>  [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube**warning: links to official video which is NSFW**](https://youtu.be/Hn7vYoZcKxw)

“Regretfully, no. He doesn’t know yet.”

A supernova of pressure behind his right eye. Burning into nothing.

“Very well. I’ll tell them together.”

Quiet.

_________________________________________________________

John was far away, somehow. Sherlock objectively knew his hands were grasping the vest, he felt the rough material, wet and heavy, the weighted battery packs, the wires, he touched the place where it should have opened in two to free its captive and couldn’t, didn’t, he knew John was rising to the surface of the water under his power, by his arms, the muscles in his back straining and struggling to clench his body to the side of the pool deck, he felt the chlorine burning his eyes, his nose, his _shattered nose,_ his blood turning the water pink and dusky around John’s head, John’s head coming to the surface of the water, sputtering for air, Sherlock knew he had John in his arms and John would be fine and John was far away, somehow.

He had John in his arms, beneath him.

He was in an extraordinary amount of pain, worse than the several rounds of beatings he had once endured at the hands of a sadistic prison guard. He couldn’t breathe through his nose and was barely able to breathe through his mouth. He knew that by this point he had lost so much blood that it was not a far off possibility that he could die.

It didn’t matter.

He had John in his arms, beneath him.

“John—?”

“Sherlock. I l-“ John’s eyes went away from his eyes. That was wrong.

Of course. Of course the timer was waterproof. That was the whole point.

“Fuck. The timer. It’s going—its still going—”

“There’s—I can’t find—there’s no off—”

An eruption of gunshots. Bullets whizzed past his head and made his ears ring. Or maybe they had hit him, he couldn’t be sure. A gun slid towards them, two hands reached for it but John grabbed it and was shooting recklessly, steadily, behind Sherlock’s back, shots pinging, surging around the pool, and of course, _of course_ John would be providing cover for him, John was lying on his back pined to the ground by a vest that was a bomb and a bomb that was Sherlock’s body and shooting blindly with his right hand while clenching a fistful of Sherlock’s white shirt to his chest with his left, his fist clenched in between their chests, pulling Sherlock’s body to his, down and away, down and away, down and away from the crossfire, and of course, of course because this was _John_ and _John is_ _brave_ and _John is analgesic_ and _John is anesthetic_ and _John is love_ and _John is in my arms, beneath me_ and _John is wearing a vest that is a bomb that is seven seconds away from exploding and if the bomb explodes around John then I need to be around John to explode around him too._

The timer stopped.

 _Then it’s happened_ , Sherlock thought. _John is watching us explode. I can tell. I can see it on his face.  
_

Sherlock’s shoulder felt warm.

_________________________________________________________

He opened his eyes to the sun setting, the world growing dark outside a small, clean, rectangular window. Soft snow was falling again, slowly, in soundless wisps and gusts that gathered into tiny neat piles on the windowsill. The sky was heavy with dark pinks, oranges, and blues that blurred into striated lines of colour over the shadowed outline of buildings made of brick and stone and steel, the edges tinted with just hints of the softest shade of lavender. He kept his eyes open and took it all in.

He felt like shit. Total, absolute, fucking shit.

Sherlock scanned his mental dictionary for a word or phrase that would somehow do better to quantify and capture the exact state of abject physical misery and pain he was presently experiencing, but came up well short.

He felt split in two.

Outside, car horns honked unforgivably loudly, making the dull aching in his face and head and _shoulder_ —

He tried to sit up, empty stomach somehow sloshing with the sudden movement. Various monitors beeped angrily in response and chorused the incessant ticking of a mundane black clock hanging on the wall across from the bed. Yes, he was in a hospital bed, in hospital scrubs, with hospital things attached to him and inside him, in a hospital room, somewhere in hospital somewhere in London. He was here, he knew he was in hospital, objectively, logically, undoubtedly, but.... _the pool John Mary Moriarty we were at the pool the vest John John John –_ his head protested the movement but he needed to, he twisted his body, struggling to loosen his arms, blinking his eyes, he had to—

“Sherlock, stop it. You’ll pull out your IV. I had to talk them into giving you one in the first place so you can thank me by leaving it in.”

Mycroft was sitting in a sleek leather chair tucked carefully into the corner of the room behind a small metal table and underneath a (thankfully switched off) telly precariously perched at the edge of its shelf, a rather risky gamble for such a minor member of the British government. But then… yes, hadn’t Mycroft also been at the pool? _  
_

“Where’s John.” His own voice sounded cloudy and foreign. He abruptly realised he had wads of cotton gauze shoved into just about every orifice in his head save his mouth. It’s a wonder he hadn't been intubated, he thought mildly.

“John’s next door.” Mycroft twirled a thin blue fountain pen between his thumb and middle finger, looking down carefully at some papers spread out before him on the table. “I’ve finished signing some paperwork for you, Sherlock. We are nearly finished with how this is going to play out.” He let the pen drop to the table on top of the papers with a delicate and muffled _thunk_. “How it _has_ played out.” He paused, cleared his throat, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes directly. “I believe I told you once that your loss would break my heart. That’s… still true.” He shifted uncomfortably. “And. Well.”

Sherlock’s head hurt too much to think of something to say to that.

Instead he forced a breath through his parched mouth which made his already raw throat protest even more and said, “John’s next door?”

“Yes, in the next room.” _  
_

“Who’s over there? Ma—“

“ _He’s_ over there.” Mycroft pushed his chair back with a loud scrape on the floor as he got to his feet and met Sherlock’s eyes. He walked the short distance to the room’s open door, pausing momentarily in the bright yellow light bleeding in from the corridor. His voice was measured and calm. “He’s been shot. As have you, as I imagine you’ve realised by now.” He cleared his throat again as he raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me, I need to make a call. I’ll return in fifteen minutes for your debriefing.” _  
_

He left, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

Sherlock watched the cloudy pink fluid draining down and out through the tube in his nose, collecting slowly into a little flexible plastic bag that hung at his chest. His left shoulder was wrapped rigidly which made points behind his scapula and the center of his back and the length of his neck ache. He brought his right hand up to his face, prodding lightly at his nose with his fingers as he tried to feel through the layers and layers of gauze and bandages and plasters that were stuck uncomfortably to his skin and pulling in ways that felt tight and wrong. The dried blood underneath felt crusty and disgusting. Fresh bursts of pain bloomed under his eyes and across his cheekbones. Bruises.

He moved his legs, the left first, then the right, heavy and protesting, his muscles unwilling and tense as he swung then dropped them down off the side of the narrow hospital bed and placed his feet on the ground. Water, he _needed_ water, he realised, as his tongue scraped across the top of his mouth like sandpaper. Thankfully a cup of ice chips was tucked in amongst some hospital detritus on his bedside table and he sucked three into his mouth for good measure. Slowly, more slowly than he would have ever admitted to and was resolutely glad that Mycroft was not still in the room to see, Sherlock shuffled out of bed, dragging his IV on the wheeled cart with him, carefully avoiding making eye contact with himself in the mirror above the toilet as he made his way across his small room to the door. Why couldn’t he remember what had happened at the pool? Had he passed out? That was inexcusable. Passed out, right in the middle of everything? How could he have done that?

His hand was reaching for the door handle when it unexpectedly opened.

John. _  
_

His right shoulder bandaged. Pulling an IV on wheels.

Twins. _  
_

_________________________________________________________

Sherlock’s shoulder felt warm.

“Sherlock. _Look at me_.”

He felt his body increasing in weight, somehow. Was that possible?

“Sherlock. _Sherlock. Keep your eyes open_. Fuck. _Sherlock!_ ” John was talking to him. He could hear John’s voice. John’s voice was manufactured in John’s vocal cords, John’s perfect voice was coming out of John’s perfect mouth, John’s voice was vibrating through the layers of the vest from John’s body to Sherlock’s body, John’s voice came from John’s vocal cords inside John’s throat and was transformed into various frequencies and vibrations of sound waves that were transmitted by air conduction into Sherlock’s outer ear and eardrum and middle ear and cochlea and translated within Sherlock’s brain to mean his John’s voice, and his John was talking to him. His John was in his arms, beneath him.

“ _Sherlock_ —”

His body was warm and heavy and he had his John.

Sherlock let his eyes close and rested his head _just for a moment, just one little moment_ on John’s shoulder. John will know what to do. He’ll know how to fix this.

_******_

Sherlock didn’t hear the small army of discreet black emergency vehicles pulling up to the pool’s car park. He didn’t see his brother’s face pale up in the viewing balcony as he watched a bullet penetrate the back of his little brother’s shoulder approximately 13 millimetres from the top of his left lung and barely nick his bone as it passed through layers and layers of warm flesh and tissue. He didn’t see the blood spilt from arms and legs and heads and bodies in the name of Queen and Country for some and in the name of James Moriarty for the others. He didn’t see the woman he knew as Mary Watson singlehandedly kill three of Mycroft’s security services agents and he didn’t hear the echo of a faint Irish accent shouting orders against the cool tile floor. He didn’t feel five emergency workers lifting him onto a gurney and didn’t feel the absence of John’s body beneath him and didn’t feel the punctures of needles and pressure of finger tips and foreign lips forcing air into his blood-soaked lungs. He didn’t see the end of what had happened at the pool and what was going to happen still. He didn’t see any of it, actually. But if there was one inevitable thing about life that Sherlock understood, that he felt had been carved into the surfaces of his bones and behind the lids of his eyes, it was that when what you want the most is taken from you, sometimes there’s a reason and sometimes there just isn’t.

_________________________________________________________

“J—John.”

To say that John looked rough would have been a tremendous and inaccurate understatement. He looked… Sherlock couldn’t think of a word that sufficiently described what happened to his body when he looked at John. John looking like this was _wrong_. _  
_

“Yeah.”

John shuffled past him into the small room, his IV dragging behind him, one wheel squeaking a miserable pattern onto the surface of the sterile floor. He stopped in front of the rumpled bed, shifting the blankets with one hand as he carefully re-adjusted the multitudes of tubing attached to him with the other. Slowly, so slowly, even uncharacteristically slowly which was saying something, Sherlock thought, John eased himself down onto Sherlock’s narrow hospital bed. The pillow wedged beneath his head rose up on either side of his ears, pushing their pink tips out amongst his sandy hair. John closed his eyes and pulled the blankets up over his legs, his toes poking out two small tents, only a slight grimace floating through the features of his face as he pressed his lips into a thin line. He cleared his throat.

“Are you coming over here or not?”

Sherlock realised he hadn’t moved since John entered the room. He had been subconsciously counting John’s breaths. Eleven. Twelve.

Wordlessly, he crossed the short distance, dragging his IV behind him, the wheels mercifully silent as the cart pulled with an uncomfortable tug on the needle embedded in his arm. Wordlessly, he lined up his IV cart next to John’s and carefully re-adjusted the multitudes of tubing attached to him. Wordlessly, he bent his leg to tentatively place a knee on the edge of the bed near the middle of John’s right thigh. John’s eyes were still closed but his breathing was steady through his nose, his mouth pressed into that dreadful, devastating thin line. Sherlock shifted his weight and lifted his other knee up onto the bed, then slumped down onto a hip and rearranged himself (also uncharacteristically slowly, he thought) so that he was next to John on his back. He could smell John. Antiseptic, cotton gauze, industrial strength laundry powder, cheap hospital soap. But underneath: _John._ The same smell that Sherlock remembered from each time he had buried his face into the striped jumper tucked between 221B’s sofa cushions. Earl Grey and rain and musk and warmth.

Sherlock was laying next to John in hospital, in one narrow bed, two separate gunshot wounds to their bodies. Shoulders. Right and left.

Sherlock let out a huff of air he hadn’t realised he had trapped somewhere behind his ribs.

“She’s dead, isn’t she.” He tried to replace the old air in the space behind his ribs with new air, but found that he couldn’t quite manage.

“Yes. I think she is.” John’s eyes were still closed. The corner of his mouth dipped a millimetre.

They weren’t touching. Not a single molecule of Sherlock’s body was touching a single molecule of John’s body but Sherlock wanted to rip his heart out of his chest. He wanted to crawl inside John’s body and open John’s chest and place his heart inside John’s heart so that it could pump John’s blood and keep him alive and absorb the pain from every single one of his blood cells.

John’s face was blurred, just out of his peripheral line of vision. Instead, Sherlock finally looked at their reflections in the mirror facing them that was hung above the toilet.

What a pair they made. They looked a mess. They looked right together.

They always had. _  
_

“And—”

“Dunno.” Eyes still closed. “Mycroft—he’ll be in to tell us.”

“So then.”

“So.” John cleared his throat again. “Then.”

Nearly a minute passed in silence. Sherlock was considering what to say next when John finally opened his eyes and looked directly at Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror. His voice was very quiet and very low.

“I’m sorry I knew her and I’m sorry I never knew her.”

Sherlock felt a lump form in the back of his throat.

The door swung open again, Mycroft in his perfectly pressed three-piece suit finishing up a phone call with “I’ll be in touch this evening. Yes, thank you” and ringing off while transferring a file folder that was tucked underneath his arm to his other hand. He eased the door shut and crossed the room to his little metal table, the sleek leather chair, and the precariously perched telly, not looking at John or Sherlock as he carefully opened the folder and spread some of the contents before him. Finally, he looked up, his eyes grave and his face pained, the worried lines around his forehead almost stretched too thin.

“I’m glad you made your way in here, John. I wanted to tell you together.” _  
_

“I know she’s dead.” John’s voice was hollow. “I killed her.”

Sherlock felt his pulse skip in the base of his throat. His palms felt clammy against the thin cotton of his hospital scrubs, his fingers starting to twitch uncontrollably. John was still, however, as steady as a rock relentlessly pounded by the ocean.

“The fatal wound was not from the gun you were shooting, John. It was delivered by one of Moriarty’s snipers. But—” Mycroft looked down at his reports, “— you did hit her. Twice.”

“ _Mycroft_.” Sherlock snapped.

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John was motionless. “Go on.”

“She was pronounced deceased by medical personnel at 04.25 this morning, cause of death due to injuries sustained from multiple gunshot wounds. Her body is currently in Barts morgue awaiting post-mortem examination. I’m assuming that DNA testing, if you consent, may lead to the confirmation of her true identity.”

“You mean she worked as an assassin for _you_ , _you_ of all people, and you never bothered—” Sherlock interrupted again.

“ _Shut up, Sherlock_.” John’s voice was louder this time, forceful. His body was so still. “It’s fine. Do it. The testing, I mean. I want to know.” _  
_

“John—”

 _“Sherlock, what part of shut the fuck up do you not understand._ ”

Sherlock decided to shut the fuck up.

Mycroft cleared his throat, eyes twitching back and forth between their faces, undoubtedly reading all the things on John’s face that Sherlock wished he could see and reading all the things on Sherlock’s face that Sherlock wished he couldn’t.

“Yes. Well. I’ll let the staff know. Ms. Hooper is unavailable so it will have to be someone else.”

“That’s fine,” John barked out, his voice rough.

Sherlock and Mycroft started in at the same moment.

“John, I—”

“We should discuss—”

“Just. I just need a minute.” John clenched his hands together in his lap, his left starting to fist into itself unconsciously, and closed his eyes again. “What did I say to her,” he whispered under his breath, “I told her I never loved her and then I killed her.”

“John, you didn’t.”

“ _Sherlock. Please,”_ came the sharp reply.

The insufferable clock ticked 127 times in the silence of the small room before John spoke again. _  
_

“What else is there.”

Mycroft continued. “She killed three of my agents. Including one of my best. She was skilled at defending herself—”

“No, I mean what else. What else about what happened.” Sherlock felt a slight, just barely discernable tremble emanating out of John’s body into the bed’s mattress. “The rest of it.”

“Dr. Myers was captured. We made a dreadful business of it but he is still… alive. Investigation shows that his real name is Dr. Sebastian—“

“Moran, obviously.” Sherlock felt his heart beating in his throat and at the base of his skull.

_control control control_

He wanted to roll his eyes at Mycroft’s tediousness but his head hurt too much and his heartbeat was out of control and making him feel sick. Better to disguise.

“Obviously.”

“Obviously—?” John’s brow was furrowed, his lips still too narrow, his jaw working against the tension creeping through his muscles.

“Moriarty’s right hand man, so to say,” Mycroft continued. “He’d been managing the oldest division of the Sri Lankan operations, high level embezzlement schemes mostly, but he came to London nearly two years ago to assist with a new project.”

“The Tube bombings.” Sherlock offered.

“But—Lord Moran—”

“No relation. Surprising, isn’t it, given their shared predilections for crime.”

Mycroft gave Sherlock a pointed look. “We are set to interrogate him in a little over an hour. I will, of course, keep both of you fully informed as to any progress made there.” He hesitated and rubbed his forehead.

“The timer, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as calmly as he could. “On the vest.”

He knew already.

Mycroft glanced down at his papers again, shuffled them a bit and placed a new one on the top. He cleared his throat and read in an even tone: “The bullet that damaged the waterproof timer on the Semtex vest came from a Sig Sauer P226R, British Army designation L106A1, distributed during the years 2001-2013 for use by soldiers and medical personnel engaged in frontline combat in the war in Afghanistan. This particular weapon—”

“They wanted her to kill me.” John’s face was blank.

“She nearly did, John.”

“She shot the timer—”

“—and in so doing, sent the same bullet piercing through Sherlock’s shoulder to eventually lodge deep within yours.”

John was quiet. He clenched and unclenched and clenched his left hand, knuckles turning white and red and white, breaths coming in short and shallow through his nose. Sherlock’s heart was racing.

Mycroft looked wary. “There’s another… element we should discuss. I’m a bit surprised you haven’t asked.”

“About?”

“Moriarty. Why I’ve made no mention of him yet.”

“It’s perfectly clear why.” Sherlock slightly shifted his position on the small bed, his movements hesitant but hoping his voice sounded the opposite. He couldn’t be sure.

John crossed his arms over his chest, his breath hitching a little with the pull on his bandaged shoulder. “Why, because he’s been captured too?”

“No, because he’s dead.” Sherlock said plainly.

He looked to Mycroft for a reaction to this deduction. The confirmation was written in the delicate lines of his face. Mycroft swallowed and waited. Ah, so he wanted Sherlock to say this next part.

“You killed him.”

Twelve seconds passed in silence, three versions of three different people’s inhales and exhales generating the only noise and motion in the room. Finally, John shifted his legs.

“ _I_ killed him.”

“Yes.”

“Mm.”

“Yes, John.”

“ _I_ did. With that gun I grabbed off the floor.”

“Yes.”

“Impossible.”

“John, the ballistics report says—”

“Sod the fucking ballistics report. It could say whatever the hell you want it to say, Mycroft, and I know it and you know it and Sherlock over here obviously knows it. You’re telling me that I somehow blindly shot my wi—Mary— _twice_ and also managed to kill Jim Moriarty who practically had a death wish the size of—whatever—and was essentially _untouchable_ even for the best people in the fucking security services and MI5 and MI6 and even the CIA and whatever other secret spies you’ve got, completely _untouchable_ for how many years—”

John’s ears were bright red and his mouth was impossibly small and the bed’s mattress was shaking under John’s body. Because of John’s body uncontrollably shaking.

“—and now, yes, _well done John_ , nice shot, taking out one of the world’s most dangerous criminals for us _by accident_ while you couldn’t even see anything because you’re wrapped in fucking _Semtex AGAIN_ and nearly half drowned and Sherlock is slumped over you bleeding to death and still you manage to shoot your wif—Mary— _twice_ , but no, not fucking Myers—Moran—whatever his name is—”

John sat up and swung his legs off the side of the bed, dipped his head down between his shoulders for a moment and then looked up, eyes piercing and narrow. Mycroft looked deeply uncomfortable. Sherlock was quiet and watched.

“—so you’ve decided you’re just going to wrap this mess up with a bow and coddle me again, right? Because I’m such a bloody idiot and _no one needs to tell John the truth because he wouldn’t understand just like you lied to me about Irene being dead_ _and then Sherlock being dead and Mary about Elizabeth and now Mary is dead and Moriarty is dead and I’m responsible for all of that because it’s ALWAYS MY FAULT. I’m the one that’s fucking done it.”_ John’s voice was raw, his face blurry and red, a canvas for the throbbing vein in his forehead.

“I’m—we’re not _lying_ , John,” Mycroft said in a very small voice a few moments after the air in the room seemed to have been sucked into a vacuum. “The bullet that tore a hole through Moriarty’s skull came from the gun that was in your hand. The gun that you fired. Our forensics has proven it.” _  
_

John couldn’t quite breathe the right way, which made Sherlock’s insides feel wrong. “And Mary’s—injuries, too. Also from that gun. But not the fatal wound, right? Not the one that actually killed her.” He let out a horrible little laugh. “The truth, yeah. I always get the truth.”

“Hand them to me, Mycroft,” Sherlock stretched out a thin hand towards the packet of photographs tucked underneath the official reports.

“Sherlock.”

“He needs to see. _Don’t_ make me order you.”

Somewhat begrudgingly, Mycroft stood and gathered the photos. “Just the ones of—”

“Obviously.”

Sherlock flipped through the small stack of colour photographs, holding them out carefully for John to see. Moriarty: eyes wide. Moriarty: on his back. Moriarty: bullet hole in his forehead. Moriarty: bloodied. Moriarty: dead.

“And I’m supposed to believe these weren’t faked. He’s done this before.”

“What would be the purpose of—John, we were thorough, this time.” Mycroft sat down again, the leather creaking under his weight.

“That’s what you said after Irene.”

“John, what’s the difference?! Who cares whether you shot him or Mary shot him or Mycroft bloody shot him. The point is, he’s _dead_. You did what I couldn’t do and I tried for two—three—years,” Sherlock burst out. “You beat me at my own game, John.”

Once again the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room.

John’s jaw was so tense it might have snapped in half.

_oh  
_

Maybe that was A Bit Not Good.

Somehow John was off of the bed and in front of the door before Sherlock even realised he had moved.

“Fuck off. Both of you.”

The door slammed behind him.

__________________________________________________________

Sherlock didn’t see John for exactly 29 hours, 37 minutes, and 15 seconds after that conversation. During that time, he had the bandages on his shoulder changed six times, drank approximately 1.6 litres of water, slept between approximately 145-148 minutes (he couldn’t be sure exactly), ate one very powdery hospital biscuit, told off his nurses eight times (including one particularly good sting he knew John would have laughed at), silently thanked Mycroft— _damn the bastard_ —three times for finding them at the pool, cursed himself fourteen times for missing Moriarty’s death due to his own unfortunately impending death and continued distraction over John’s bravery and general _John-ness_ , and wrote, destroyed, and re-wrote seven notes to John on the back of his own medical records stolen from the nurses’ station when Cindy was out having a smoke that she thought Erica didn’t know about.

The first note (on the back of an x-ray report) started: ~~“I’m sorry that the woman I knew as Mary Watson is dead and that you feel responsible for that even though I looked at the reports and a superficial gunshot wound to the biceps brachii—”~~

The second note (on the back of stress test results) started: ~~“Why didn’t you realise that you had shot Moriarty or witness his death? I realise that I was obscuring your view and that you were literally wearing a bomb at the time and I suppose if you had seen it, maybe yesterday wouldn’t have been a good time to talk about it—”~~

The third note (on the back of a psychological evaluation) started: ~~“I’m very thankful that you held me close to your chest and out of the way of the gunfire because otherwise I would have been shot many times and I was only shot once—”~~

The fourth note (on the back of a shoulder scan) started: “ ~~I’m fairly certain I fell in love with you after you shot the cabbie that night but I didn’t think about it until I was hiding in an empty train car in Mumbai with a horrendous knife wound to my upper leg from a dreadfully foul tea merchant and I remembered what you said to me about being clever and I realised I wasn’t clever at all because I had left you—~~ ”

The fifth note (on the back of a medication list) started: “ ~~I ruined everything again because I always ruin everything and you’re good and I’m not good and I need you to tell me when I’m not good and you saved me so many times and in so many ways and I don’t know how to fix this—~~ ”

The sixth note (on the back of a drug history report) started: “ ~~Mycroft has been to visit you again, hasn’t he. I could sense his pretension from your room next door. Next time he visits, please tell him off from me and know that there is nothing I would love more than to be in your room with you because Cindy and Erica are shite nurses and insufferably boring and you’re a doctor and you’re not boring and I love you—~~ ”

The seventh note (on the back of the list of every biochemical substance in his blood) said: “John, there is no universe, no version of reality that could possibly exist in which I would not regret everything I ever said or did that hurt you. SH” _  
_

He slipped it between the bowl of mushy hospital peas and the sad-looking packet of hospital biscuits on John’s meal tray while Erica was having it out with Cindy for smoking. He allowed himself a moment of staring forlornly at John’s closed door, then went back into his own room and crawled into bed.

_________________________________________________________

Sherlock was thinking.

More specifically, he was sitting naked on the floor of his olive-tiled hospital shower letting the hot water pound down onto his shoulders and back, thinking about why John hadn’t responded or made any attempts to contact him after he sent his note nearly four hours ago. He was thinking of Mary’s death, of what it must mean for John. He was thinking of Moriarty’s death, of what it meant for him.

The gauze on his face and shoulder were soaked. He tore them off and tossed them in a heap on the floor underneath the sink basin. For good measure, he reached the arm attached to his good shoulder up to switch off the overhead lights, leaving a low yellow glow from the solitary nightlight underneath the mirror.

Erica had said not to get his bandages wet. He didn’t much care for Erica’s opinions about not getting bandages wet. Or her opinions about smoking. Or Erica, generally.

Sod Erica. _  
_

He felt indeterminably wrong. Tired, perhaps. He was still terrifically injured after all, he admitted to himself, and had pulled out his IV earlier that afternoon because seriously, what was the point. He wanted to feel the pain. That had always been his downfall, not wanting to feel it.

But now he wanted to feel pain and he ruined everything. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, at your service.

He let the hot water sink into his wounds, each chorus of drops like tiny teeth ripping into the tenderly healing flesh.

It hurt.

It was good.

The door to the surprisingly spacious hospital loo opened. Sherlock popped his sopping wet mess of curls out from the side of the shower curtain to tell off Cindy (or hopefully Erica, that would be even better) for interrupting his completely starkers private shower thinking time.

It wasn’t Cindy or Erica.

  
It was John.

Sherlock stared at him.

Silently, John met his eyes.

Sherlock read a thousand things in their dark blue depths and in the creases at their corners and in the heavy lines and bags beneath them. A thousand things John might never say to him and a thousand things John needed to hear him say and a thousand things Sherlock wanted to whisper into the chromosomes in the cells of John’s skin.

John closed the door behind him. Wordlessly, he stripped off his wrinkled cotton hospital scrubs, pushed off his pants, tore the bandages from his shoulder without so much as a grimace, tossed them on top of Sherlock’s drenched heap. No IV chained him to a dreadful little cart anymore. John set his shoulders and turned his eyes away. He brushed the nylon curtain aside and carefully stepped one foot, then the next over the short ledge into the shower. He sat down next to Sherlock on the olive tile, inadequately trying to split the piping hot water stream between the two of them, and carefully crossed his legs.

Sherlock experienced a perhaps unprecedented surge of emotion.

He swallowed. They were quiet together. Nearly two minutes passed.

“John—I’m.”

John had him on his back in three seconds, the scalding water streaming into his eyes, John’s body a cage over his chest, John’s hand underneath his head to protect it from the slick tile. Sherlock stared at the pale rough scar on his left shoulder and the angry red beginnings of the one on his right.

“You’re what.”

“I’m.”

The scars weren’t perfectly aligned. The right one was 7 millimetres closer to John’s throat.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” Sherlock mumbled.

“Good. Because I do.” John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s lips.

Somehow Sherlock’s brain went offline. Just… went blank. John’s mouth was wet and soft and gentle against his split lip and his sore nose. John’s fingers pressed into the back of his skull. Sherlock opened his mouth and tasted him. Earl Grey and rain and musk and warmth.

His skin was burning. He was lit on fire.

Sherlock heard himself say John’s name. _  
_

He felt lips drag along the skin underneath his jaw, rough with stubble, trace lightly down his chest, over his wounded shoulder, across the thin stretch of his belly and into the crease of his hip.

“ _John_ ,” he breathed. “Are you sure.”

“Please just shut up. Unlessyou don’t want this.” A dip of tongue and then a lick into the crease. Fingers squeezed into his sides. “Then tell me to leave.”

"Don't. Leave." Sherlock let his head hit back against the tiles. He knew he was hard, he knew John could see his cock flushed and thick and rosy against his stomach. He knew—he lifted up his head.

Oh.

John was hard too, his cock hanging heavy between his legs.

 _Oh_.

His head felt fuzzy, static rolling through his brain waves as his body’s responses took over. How long had it been since he had been touched this way. Since he had been _touched_.

_What if John is doing this because he thinks I want it and he’s not processed everything that’s happened yet and he regrets it because it’s too early and he’s what I want but I’m not what he wants and we haven’t figured out—_

John had Sherlock’s cock in his mouth.

_John had Sherlock’s cock in his mouth._

“Nnnhgg,” came a noise from somewhere deep inside Sherlock’s body.

_oh my god_

John was crouched between Sherlock’s spread legs, Sherlock on his back, water spraying into his eyes, John’s mouth working up and down and soft and hot around Sherlock’s cock, his right arm braced against Sherlock’s hips, the other holding up his own weight. Sherlock’s lungs felt tight. A spot behind his left scapula ached. His brain felt off-kilter, his legs were trembling, he was positive his nose was bleeding again.

He felt fucking fantastic.

John ghosted his fingers over Sherlock’s hips and sucked, his warm, wet tongue caressing the length of Sherlock’s cock as it sunk deeper and deeper into his mouth, over and over, as he sucked and _sucked—_

“ _John John John I’m going to I’m going to come up here now John_ ” poured out of Sherlock’s mouth as he reached down between his legs and pulled John off his cock with a satisfying _pop_ , pulled him up on top of his wounded body, shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, cocks sliding against each other, slick with John’s spit. Sherlock helplessly pressed his hips up against John’s, grinding their bodies together as he kissed the space between his nose and upper lip, as he pulled John’s bottom lip between his teeth, as he bit the inside of his own cheek until he tasted blood. He needed to be closer, he needed to press, _press tighter, closer_ , push _inside John, John inside of him_ , rolling his hips fast and steady against John, spit and pre-come sliding smoothly between their bodies, hot and wet and exhausted and needy, John making little noises in the back of his throat and Sherlock holding his breath and squeezing his eyes closed, and _tighter, closer, push closer, more, more, more, more, more_

Sherlock felt the rush spike through his body into the marrow of his bones and the base of his spine. A moment later John slumped down on top of him, their pooled come slippery and silky between their bellies. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s back.

“I’m.”

“You’re what, Sherlock.”

“ _I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m yours_.” he whispered into John’s ear.

They laid there, John on top of Sherlock, salt from sweat and come and maybe a few tears dissolving into the water scalding hot or icy cold that he couldn’t tell which was making his skin burn, spinning down the drain, washing away bits of Sherlock and bits of John and mixing them together so that they couldn’t ever be separated or pulled apart or divided or split. He felt John’s heartbeat slow inside his own chest.

Later, rinsed off, and dried and tucked together into Sherlock’s narrow bed, under too many blankets and too few pillows, Sherlock tucked a pinky finger under the hem of John’s soft t-shirt and grazed his lips against the worn collar, forcing in a deep breath through his broken nose. He counted John’s heartbeats (248) until he fell asleep.

Later, he woke and counted John’s eyelashes (136 on the upper right lid, 127 on the left) until he fell back asleep.

Later, he woke up and John was gone.

Cindy rolled her eyes and snapped her bubblegum as he jabbed a finger in her face demanding John’s whereabouts after he frantically searched his empty room next door and found no trace of army doctor (though he could still _smell_ John, which made his stomach flutter and his heart ache).

“He’s gone, Mr. Holmes. He was discharged last night.”

“And Mycroft Holmes arranged his transportation?”

“No, he left alone in a cab. ‘Bout two hours ago now.”

“Where was he headed?”

“Dunno where. Wouldn’t say but he told us not to wake you. Left this for you though.”

She handed him a sheet of paper that appeared to be a printout of John’s most recent blood test results. Sherlock grabbed it from her hand and looked at the reverse.

John had written, in his tidy little scrawl:

 

_Don’t try to find me. Not yet._

_But for the record, I’m yours too.  
_

_JW_


	8. a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I see them snakes come through the ground  
> They choke me to the bone  
> They tie me to their wooden chair  
> Here are all my songs
> 
> So come on Love, draw your swords  
> Shoot me to the ground  
> You are mine, I am yours  
> Let's not fuck around
> 
> Cause you are, the only one  
> Cause you are, the only one
> 
> Draw Your Swords ~ Angus and Julia Stone
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)   
>  [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/Ceup8anv94A)

_He felt Sherlock tuck a finger under the hem of his t-shirt and breathe into his neck. Sleep settled on John quickly, his eyelids heavy with a grief that he wasn’t prepared to acknowledge and a love that he had tried to._

_John was asleep under the weight of Sherlock’s arms for six hours. After six hours and two minutes, he pulled himself out of their warm cocoon as Sherlock slept on like a stone, went to his own room and gathered his few possessions that hadn’t been binned by hospital staff or confiscated by the British government, collected a few bandages for his shoulder, pulled on a scratchy hospital jumper, requested a copy of his last blood test report and scribbled a note on the reverse, and quietly left in a cab. Surprisingly, none of Mycroft’s people stopped him._

_Might’ve been the look he gave them, but regardless._

_Beneath his jacket and jumper, he inhaled into the shoulder of his t-shirt in the cab. He smelled like Sherlock. Like something he loved but could never name._

_He didn’t bother asking himself if he had a plan as he stared out of the window at a snow-covered London._

_________________________________________________________

“Um, the report.” Molly brushed her hair behind her ear as she gestured with her other hand towards a thick sealed envelope balanced on the corner of the lab equipment table. The corner of her mouth twitched. “I couldn’t do the exam but I checked the DNA results to be sure they were—processed correctly.” He glanced up to meet her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea, John, about any of it.”

“Yeah.”

She hesitated. “Her remains. What would you—”

“I don’t. I can’t think about that just now." _  
_

“Oh, no, I—”

“Molly.” He cleared this throat. “Thanks.” He picked up the envelope and carefully tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. The frayed little hole on the shoulder stretched itself open with his movement. Forensics cleaners had removed Sherlock’s blood but there was no removing a bullet hole.

“Are you alright to be out of hospital already? Your shoulder—”

He didn’t hear the rest of what she said before the lab door softly _whooshed_ shut behind him.

***

John didn’t have a plan. He decided to walk. Walking he could trust himself to do. He walked for what felt like an age. Mycroft’s CCTV cameras were surely following him and it was inconceivable that Sherlock would not have detected his absence less than two minutes after he had left but no one approached him. No sleek black cars pulled up alongside the pavement with Anthea inside, chagrining him with her customary mild threats or mild looks of disapproval or mild disinterest.

There was one text from Mycroft that said simply _Please reply, John_ but he had turned off his phone immediately afterwards and there were no other interruptions.

Nothing and no one encroached on his solitude.

So he walked through the snow and he thought about things that hurt him.

The envelope was a paper tombstone in his pocket.

He was a tree uprooted, exposed and weightless, drifting against the current of a river and caught on the side of the bank, roots dry and twisted into shapes that caught innocent things and trapped them until they were dead. He was all the versions of himself stretched flat and thin and laid out on top of each other; no matter how many layers he was endlessly transparent and desperate to form something other than himself again. He was a reflection.

As he walked, John found the complicated shapes of grief and anger as they lived between truth and lies, as they crossed boundaries into pain. He felt them, blurred them, slipped them into some of the private little places that he had created long ago and still used when needed. Afghanistan. Sherlock’s death. These things lived in secrets within him.

Now he would add the pool.

He walked to his old bedsit where he had lived before he met Sherlock. He walked to the surgery where he had been working when he met Mary. He walked to Irene Adler’s old house and the last pub he and Sherlock had visited on his stag night. He walked to the other bedsit where he moved after Sherlock died, he walked to the Tesco where he used to buy milk and bread and tell off the chip-and-pin machines, he walked to Roland-Kerr Further Education College where he had killed a man who had offered death to Sherlock in an unassuming white pill. He walked to a park that he used to like as a little boy and he walked to Leinster Gardens.

As he walked, he thought about Elizabeth Sherlock Watson, about how she had never existed and how badly he had wanted her to, and then wasn’t sure he had wanted her to after all. He thought about Mary’s death, remembered the look in her eyes the day he met her in the surgery corridor, wondered if after all this time he could be honest with himself about why he had still proposed and why he had married her, even after Sherlock had come back.

He thought about Sherlock. He thought about him for hours.

He thought about how he had put a bullet through Moriarty’s brain when over the course of several years hundreds of Mycroft’s highly-trained people had tried repeatedly and failed every time.

John figured this was a lie and that it must be told for a reason. Why, he couldn’t be sure, but he knew it had to be a lie.

John Watson was so fucking tired of lies.

Twelve hours later he stopped walking. He had found himself back at the pub that he drank at so often while Sherlock had been dead. He remembered a dream that he’d had where he’d been drinking and like an idiot had shattered an ashtray and then stumbled over to Baker Street to cry on the front steps. At least, he was fairly certain I t had been a dream.

John drank until his ears felt warm again and the sharp-edged corners of his mind were dulled by amber liquor and time.

He left the pub before he was asked to leave. _  
_

As new flurries of iridescent snow glimmered in the low light of the setting sun, he sat down on a bench on the rim of Regents Park, wrapped his jacket closer about him and closed his eyes. He was at the pool again. The gunshots, Mary’s face, Moriarty’s grin, the weight of the vest, Sherlock’s eyes. Drowning with lungs bursting, the sweat-salt taste of the gag in his mouth, the stinging cuts around his wrists from the ties, the burst of pressure at his shoulder, a bullet already covered in Sherlock’s blood digging its way into his blood, into his flesh. The dark shine of his Sig in Mary’s lap, the shape of it clenched in her hand, the steady trickle of blood down the side of her pale face. Moriarty’s reptilian grin, his black eyed stare gleaming under the lights. The press of Sherlock’s body against him as he killed them.

He _had_ heard it. Heard her. He had heard her cry out.

And he had pulled the trigger again.

Trying for Moran.

He hadn’t been aiming at her, of course. Of course he hadn’t been aiming for her.

Of course not.

People might think— _Jesus._

The ocean of alcohol roiled in his empty stomach.

He turned his head to the side and was suddenly violently sick in the bin at the end of the bench. As he was retching, a heavy familiar weight settled in behind him.

John forced in a breath through his nose, opened his eyes, and turned his head.

Sherlock had joined him.

_______________________________________________________

_“Take my hand.”_

_“Now people will definitely talk.”_

_The gun clattered to the ground as they ran handcuffed together through the streets of London. John felt Sherlock’s pulse in the palm of his hand._

_People could see them, that’s all. John worried about the press. Didn’t want Sherlock’s reputation to be the centre of speculation. Didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about their relationship, what they were to one another._

_Pretty straightforward, that’s what it was. That’s all that it was._

__________________________________________________________________

They didn’t look over at each other.

Sherlock was quiet, waiting for John to speak first.

“You weren’t supposed to find me. Yet.”

“John.”

“I was going to ask _how_ you found me but I guess that’s beside the point.”

“Over twenty-two hours, John, and now your vulnerability has peaked. Freezing temperatures, a significant wound in your shoulder, excessive consumption of alcohol, emotional distress and not only psychological but physical trauma, plus now you’ve just been ill—“

“Good, Sherlock. Good deductions.”

Sherlock jut out his jaw and looked down at his clasped hands resting on his knees, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the joint of his index finger. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have be here to try to make me feel better. I don’t need it.”

“I want you to need it.” Sherlock swallowed.

John’s head was starting to throb. The envelope was dead weight in his pocket, inexplicably pressing his body into the bench. He tried to swallow down the sour taste of stomach bile and alcohol in his mouth. They were both quiet again.

“Cigarette.” John said after a few minutes, holding out an open hand.

“I don’t have—”

“Sherlock. I can smell it on you.” _  
_

“Hm.”

“Dunno how you’ve managed to smoke with a broken nose.”

“There are many things I’ve had to manage, John.”

Sherlock reached into a pocket of the Belstaff and pulled out two cigarettes, first lighting one for John, then one for himself. They sat in subdued silence, watching the snow slowly cover their knees while the park lamps peacefully flickered on, each one haloed against the black-blue sky of a winter evening in Regents Park.

John blew out a cloud of smoke. “I never thought it would end this way with her.” He licked his lips, tapped the ash off, and pulled his jacket close again. “Jesus, that sounded—I mean, I never wanted her to—obviously not. It’s just.” He gave up. The end of the cigarette glowed as he placed it between his lips again and sucked, expanding his lungs with a deep breath. His eyes flickered shut as smoke seeped from his nose and mouth. “I asked her at Christmas last year if Mary Watson was good enough for her.”

Sherlock was still, his own clouds of smoke drifting upwards into the night sky.

“And now I have her real name in my pocket. Just like that.” John tapped the cigarette again, ash falling at his feet. “And now she’s dead. Just like that.”

“Mm.”

They were quiet. A small crowd of uni students passed by under the orange glow of the park lamps, the sound of their chattering softened by the falling snow as puffs of warm breath rose in swirling wisps above their heads.

They finished their cigarettes and tossed them into the snow.

“Moriarty’s definitely dead, then.”

“His body’s in Barts morgue, John. You saw the photos.”

“I want to see his body.”

“Mycroft can arrange that. Tomorrow.” He hesitated. “You could have asked Molly when you were gathering the DNA results.”

John shifted his legs and shoved his hands back into his jacket pockets. Sherlock waited and then cleared his throat.

“So.”

“Hm.”

“You haven’t opened it yet.”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Is there a reason why you haven’t?”

“You don’t get to ask me that.”

“Hm." _  
_

“Not yet, anyway.”

A woman carrying a baby walked by a short distance in front of their bench. Two teenagers shuffled a path of blurry footprints through the snow. At the end of the street a cab stopped to pick up the group of students and John watched them pile in over each other, laughing as they struggled to fit into the small space.

“I’m not a good person, Sherlock.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Please.”

“Good is tediously dull. Can’t think of a more boring descriptor than _good_.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“I don’t want you to be good. I want you to be you.”

They lapsed into silence again. It had stopped snowing and seemed warmer, the winter air loosing some of its chill as sunrise approached. After several minutes, John noticed Sherlock shift nearly imperceptibly on the bench, moving minutely closer to him.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was impossibly low. “What you wrote on the back of that note.”

John rolled the words around in his mouth, felt them on his lips.

He looked over at Sherlock, who was almost unrecognisable, his nose still badly swollen, face painted with purple-green bruises, his tense posture betraying him as he tried not to shiver, the slowly healing hole from the bullet that tore through his shoulder still obviously paining him. But his eyes were the same. The look in his eyes was the same.

It was simple. He was his.

They belonged to each other.

John met his eyes. “I should have said it back to you.”

Sherlock moved his arm, slowly, deliberately, offering his bare hand, palm up, to him.

John took it.

He pressed palm to palm until there was no space between.

“But you did, John.”

They sat holding hands on a snowy bench at the rim of Regents Park until the sun rose pink and yellow over the barren trees.

Then they walked home.

_________________________________________________________

John thought 221B looked essentially the same as it had just a few days prior as he stepped over the threshold behind Sherlock and followed him into the sitting room, where for the first time he noticed his old striped jumper tucked in-between the sofa cushions. Sherlock took off the Belstaff and placed it carefully on his chair, then turned and stood in front of John, closely watching him trace the outlines of his old life with his eyes. Dust floated sideways in the pale yellow light of early morning. Mrs. Hudson was away at her sisters' so the flat was silent as a tomb.

_Home_

_I’m back home_

_with him_

John inhaled the molecules of 221B into his lungs and shed his jacket, laying it on the back of his chair, the sealed envelope still tucked into his pocket. They both stared at it for a moment and then looked back at each other.

“John, I’m not—I don’t exactly know what the rules are.”

“Rules.”

“About this. You shouldn’t feel that… things have to happen now. The envelope, maybe you—”

“There aren’t rules, Sherlock.” John stepped forward and closed the small distance but endless stretch of space between their bodies. He closed his eyes and brushed his lips softly against the pale thin skin of Sherlock’s throat. “The rules are wrong.”

“John.”

“I can’t save myself from you.”

“Unbearable. Don’t.” Sherlock murmured.

“I’m exhausted.”

“Then let me.” Sherlock breathed. John’s mouth stayed against the underside of Sherlock’s jaw as he felt his shoulders begin to loosen, his hips push forward, his body melt into Sherlock’s. “John, look at me.” He opened his eyes and did. Sherlock wrapped his hands around the back of John’s head, fingers threading through sandy-grey hair, cradling him, then delicately curled the fingers of his right hand around the shell of John’s ear. His face was open and his eyes were soft, his voice an embrace.

“Please just let me love you.”

John smiled.

 

***

 

Sherlock walked backwards, not stumbling a bit, slowly pulling John back into his bedroom, holding his head in his hands and placing kiss after kiss on his lips. John tasted the darkly subtle sweetness of Sherlock’s mouth, soft and pliant and eager and _helpful_ , Sherlock was being _helpful_ , opening wider for John to press into, giving and taking and offering in equal measure. The way Sherlock kissed John was both gentle and reckless, a contradiction, a manifestation of the man himself.

John felt the edge of the bed bump against the back of his legs, felt Sherlock’s hands move from around his head to the back of his neck to his shoulders, careful of the right one, felt his fingertips press into the skin on his back though his t-shirt as their mouths slid smoothly together. They were still fully dressed with shoes on, but now the air felt hot around their bodies, newly warmed from the cold outside. John broke the kiss. _  
_

“Clothes.”

Sherlock put his mouth on John’s again. They busied themselves with unbuttoning and unzipping, toeing off shoes and socks, bumping hands and knees, once bumping noses (at which Sherlock let out a sad, involuntary little noise) but always keeping lips on lips. John kissed the curve of Sherlock’s cupid’s bow as Sherlock pushed down John’s jeans and wrestled off his jumper and t-shirt, Sherlock breathed into John’s mouth as John shed Sherlock’s trousers and pulled open his button down to rub his hands over the thin hospital t-shirt underneath.

“Not over your head or...?”

A few grimaces later, Sherlock was bare-chested. His wound was significantly worse than John’s, the bullet having passed clear through his shoulder. John kissed a circle around the bandages over the patch of angry red skin on Sherlock’s front, reaching up behind him to brush his fingers over the middle of Sherlock’s back, careful to avoid the bandages plastered there. He reached up to kiss Sherlock’s mouth again as his hands felt skin that wasn’t smooth, but raised, rough, scarred.

“Hang—” John pulled his lips away. “Hang on.” He pulled himself out of their embrace and pivoted around his side. Sherlock stood, frozen.

_Oh my god_

Rivers of scars ran the length of Sherlock’s back, crisscrossing over each other in some places and some isolated over particular muscles. John traced the geography with his fingers, Sherlock’s body an atlas, a testament to a history of pain inflicted.

“I didn’t know,” John whispered. A wide ribbon of scar tissue swirled next to a triangle of freckles over Sherlock’s right kidney. “Oh my god. I didn’t know.” John lowered his lips to a rough patch of Sherlock’s skin on his right shoulder, burning hot to his touch.

“Serbia.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Eventually I… got myself out, no thanks to Mycroft, although he would tell you otherwise.”

“You never said.” John whispered, kissing patches of skin and tracing valleys of scars with his fingers.

“You never asked.” Sherlock said plainly.

“Thanks.”

“No, I didn’t mean—no. It doesn’t matter now.”

“Sherlock, I threw you to the ground that night. I—”

“It’s over. It’s all over.” He twisted around to face John, cupping his hands once more around John’s head, rubbing his thumbs on the edges of his jaw.

“But you’ll tell me. Someday.”

“If you’d like. Now I think we were in the middle doing something much more important,” he said as he lowered his mouth to John’s again.

Sherlock was difficult, objectionable, unreasonable, rude, irritating, and inconceivably infuriating on the best of days.

But he loved John and John loved him. And he was a _bloody_ good kisser.

John got lost in his arms.

Somehow Sherlock lowered John down onto his back on the bed, the sheets and duvet unmade and mussed from the last time Sherlock must have slept there. Being surrounded in the familiar smell of Sherlock-not-here combined with the new smell of Sherlock-here-and-up-close made John’s heart ache as he tried to press up into the warm body above him. Their kiss was interrupted again as Sherlock pulled off and sat up stiffly.

“I can’t lay—I can’t support my weight with my shoulder—”

“No, it’s fine. It’s fine. Lie next to me.” John shifted over on the bed, making space for Sherlock to lower himself so they were stretched out side by side. They laid there for a few moments, breathing, staring at each other, John wondering not for the first time how they managed to get there again after everything that had happened, everything the universe had designed and conspired against them and they had somehow beat it, forced its hand, again and again and again.

Distance and death could not insist that they abandon each other.

John reached out his hand and placed it over Sherlock’s stomach as Sherlock pushed down John’s pants, pulled them off his legs, and slowly wrapped a warm hand around his cock, his long thin fingers caressing the length of him.

“What do you want, John.”

“You. Whatever you’ll give me.”

Sherlock made a small choked off sound in the back of his throat and began to softly stroke his hand up and down on John’s cock. John leaned in to kiss his mouth and then pulled up Sherlock’s other arm, kissing the fluttering pulse that pushed through the veins along the inside of his wrist.

“God, I’m tired,” John breathed hot against Sherlock’s skin.

“Close your eyes,” Sherlock whispered in his ear. The hand wrapped around John’s cock tightened slightly, still stroking a steady rhythm against the soft, satiny skin. He ran a few fingers over the tip, dipping into John’s pre-come pooled there, gliding it down the sides and smoothing it under his palm before making a ring with his thumb and middle fingers and continuing his rhythm at the head of John’s cock.

“Oh fuck that feels good. How are you so good at this,” John murmured. “You, what about you?” Sherlock tucked his face into John’s shoulder as John sucked in a breath and lowered his own hand down over the length of Sherlock’s cock still tucked in his pants. John started to slowly push one finger, then two, then three under his waistband and pull down, slowly, slowly, _slowly_ , so that finally Sherlock’s cock sprung free against his belly.

“Keep your eyes closed.” Sherlock kept his speed around John’s cock and slowly shifted his body so that he was lying pressed skin to skin against John, his face still buried in John’s shoulder, his pants twisted about his knees as John’s hand wrapped around his own erection. “I want to make you feel good, John, I want to make you feel good _, so fucking good_ ,” he chanted in a whisper.

John’s body responded to Sherlock’s touch and rare use of _fuck_ with a shudder. “Do you know—how many times—I’ve thought about this—” he moaned, “—ever since that first time when you—sucked—oh fucking hell—“ Sherlock had pulled John’s earlobe into his mouth, “—sucked me off in this bed, oh fuck,” and had started to work his way down the side of John’s neck and was licking at the base of his throat. “I used to lock myself in the loo in the middle of— _jesus_ fuck—“ Sherlock was orchestrating something amazing between his hand on John’s cock and his mouth on John’s neck now, “—middle of the night in the safehouse and have a good _wank_ —alright Sherlock I’m seriously going to come soon and I’ve not done anything for you,” he breathed in a rush as he tried to keep a rhythm around Sherlock’s cock.

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not alright.”

“It’s alright, John.”

Their arms were crossed, Sherlock’s over John’s, as they laid side by side, skin to skin, a right hand and a left wrapped around each other’s cocks, Sherlock’s movements determined, John’s movements sporadic, their heads turned towards each other and foreheads pressed together. John watched the morning light change the colour of Sherlock’s eyes from seaglass blue to transparent silver-green. He listened to the short breaths Sherlock was trying to force through his nose and felt them warm his cheeks and chin. He felt the familiar thrumming of Sherlock’s heartbeat through the side of his narrow ribs.

_Familiar_

_Sherlock like this was becoming_

_Familiar_

“John, let go.” Sherlock whispered.

John felt like he was alone in a desert in the middle of the night. The darkness in a desert is sublime and terrifying. Disorienting. Lonely. No end to it exists and within it exists multitudes. It is far easier to get lost than to find the right way.

Sherlock’s eyes were lights in the desert.

He followed them home.

John came until there was nothing left within him.

His body went limp, eyes half-lidded, his hand sagged over Sherlock’s erection. He breathed and waited and breathed and breathed and breathed.

“I’m sorry I didn’t—“ He realised Sherlock’s come was covering the side of his hand, a little silky pool of it already nestled in the coarse curls at the base of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s pants were still bunched around his knees.

“I was watching your face.” Sherlock murmured against John’s mouth before he pressed their lips together so tenderly John wanted to cry. He traced a constellation on the inside of John’s thigh.

“Hm.” John reached up with his other hand and threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s mussed curls. He could feel his own come pooled on his lower belly, his neck felt stiff and sore from bending to the side for so long, and his shoulder was starting to ache again. He didn’t move a millimetre.

“You’re mine,” he said.

“And you’re mine,” came the response.

_________________________________________________________

John woke up to the sun hanging low and muted in the sky, throwing slanted shadows across the walls of Sherlock’s bedroom. Outside the window, London was humming as people journeyed on their commutes home, cabbies starting and stopping, doors slamming and voices mingling in the chilly air above the snow-covered streets. He closed his eyes and listened to the city move and breathe and beat its heart as he burrowed deeper into the scent of sex and Sherlock in the sheets. After a few moments, he stretched out a hand to the other side of the bed and felt cold cotton instead of warm detective.

“Sherlock.” No answer. _  
_

Well. He supposed that didn’t necessarily imply Sherlock was gone, because getting Sherlock to respond to him was a challenge sometimes even when he was staring him in the face.

He waited.

“Sherlock?” Still no answer.

John threw off the bed covers and rolled onto his right side, which was a huge mistake given his healing shoulder, for which he cursed himself over a few times for good measure. He looked down at his body. The come had been cleaned off of his belly. He was wearing his socks again.

_Oh my god he put my socks back on while I was sleeping  
_

He sat up slowly, taking his time adjusting to being vertical. The weight of the last few days settled over him once more but it felt different, somehow. It felt… different. He would leave it at that for now. _  
_

After having a piss, cleaning his teeth (bless Sherlock for keeping a hopefully adequately sanitary spare toothbrush in the cupboard), and drinking his body weight in water, John stumbled into the kitchen. Definitely no Sherlock. No Belstaff either.

And no sealed envelope tucked into the pocket of John’s jacket.

He looked down at his feet at a hastily scrawled note that had been deliberately left in the middle of the lino:

_Check your phone. You were exhausted and I’m sorry for leaving you sleeping but hopefully you will see that as a kindness. –SH_

_P.S. I took the envelope for safe-keeping. I did not open it._

John walked over to his jacket and pulled out his mobile, thumbing it on and listening to multiple chimes and beeps of text alerts and voicemails. There were three messages from Sherlock, all sent within the last two hours.

_When you wake up, come to NSY at once. –SH_

_Don’t go to NSY. Take a cab to Secret Services HQ and ask for me. –SH_

_Mycroft has been arrested. -SH_


	9. if you don't know the kind of person I am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i watched you as you slept  
> red arrows fell around us  
> and before the sea came in  
> i knew you were the one  
> we are turning in the circle of the sun  
> we are falling into our new forms  
> i feel light i feel sent  
> catch me racing  
> across the skyline
> 
> Red Arrow (John) ~ Gem Club
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
>  [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/aRUx7gNBsho)

_Sherlock was drifting in and out of dreams, at once in a vast and murky ocean of subconscious, floating in the space between sleep and waking, awake and dreaming as he breathed deeply into the patchwork of soft skin and scars between John’s neck and left shoulder._

_He never slept, let alone dreamed. He slept and dreamed with John._

_He dreamt he was falling off a tall building, heavy as a stone, the pavement growing coppery moss the colour of dried blood._

_He rubbed the tip of his nose into the universe of fine blond hairs on the back of John’s neck. The pressure was deliberate and firm but it didn’t hurt and Sherlock knew the reason that it didn’t hurt was because of John and every time John touched him he was made whole again._

_He wanted to touch and taste until John had polished spaces on his skin, John’s body a bronze statue with sacred spots rubbed off shiny gold._

_John was crammed into the small spaces in Sherlock’s heart that didn’t exist. John lived amongst the stars. John was a solar system._

_He dreamt that John pressed him up against the wall like a pinned butterfly, a small, strong hand wrapped tightly around each thin wrist. John told him, “I wanted to sleep in this bed after you died.”_

_He kept his eyes closed and saw the end of it all, the end of them._

_He saw John leaving after_

_one too many times_

_one too many times_

_one too many times_

_“I don’t want to sleep without you someday,” he whispered into the folds of John’s ear._

_“Mmmph,” said John, as his eyelids flickered under the darkened sky of his own dreams._

_“There is no without you,” Sherlock told John without moving his lips._

_Sherlock slept nestled into the warm curves of John’s body until his mobile fell off the kitchen table with a clatter from all the buzzing._

________________________________________________________________

“Ludicrous.”

“Sorry?”

“And if you must know, you’re an idiot.”

“Mr. Holmes, that’s completely—what gives you any right—”

“What gives me the right is this Security Ultra clearance pass,” Sherlock dangled the badge in front of the rather dull government official’s nose, “which my brother has so graciously bestowed upon me for matters such as this.”

“But it’s got _his_ name on it, not yours.”

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock shoved it back into the pocket of his coat and gave the man a laser-eyed stare. He was standing in the rather dull reception entrance of the Secret Security offices. The man who was sat behind a rather dull reception desk crossed his arms in front of his chest, helpfully angling the rather dull florescent light onto his rather dull identity badge.

“He was transferred here a few hours ago, I’ll tell you that much, but I’m not to let anyone see him.”

Sherlock leaned across the desk, narrowed his eyes, and dropped his voice, glancing at the man’s badge. “Is that so, _Philip_.” _Why are men called Philip inevitably and resolutely idiotic,_ Sherlock thought. “You’re about to lose your job.”

“Oh go on. I’m not afraid of you,” Philip snorted. “I know all about you and your fake suicide and your boyfriend. Heard he was all torn up afterwards. Press hounded him.”

Something dangerous and gleeful flashed behind Sherlock’s eyes.

“Unwise, Philip.” Sherlock sighed. “I know that you manufactured half of your resume in order to get this job and stole 150 quid out of the office charity pool last Christmas to spend on gifts for the woman whom you tried to convince, _unsuccessfully_ , obviously, to sleep with you. I know that you’ve scoured several classified files without the required permissions and made copies for another woman who promised you a quickie in the car park and a tenner or two in exchange for said copies.”

Philip had started to pale. “How do you—”

“Unsurprisingly, you gave her the copies and she gave you nothing. Don’t bother asking how I know that because you’re a moron who is willing to sell official secrets for the promise of a sexual encounter that you don’t have to dial up or pay for.”

“Mr. Holmes—”

“And I know that the woman who propositioned you was actually an undercover security agent whom, rather conveniently, works for my brother and is prepared to testify in a trial against you on charges which would result in a terminal prison sentence of no less than the rest of your natural life,” Sherlock finished, his eyes burning into dull Philip’s face.

Except Philip didn’t look so dull, anymore. His mouth fell open, making him look like an indolent fool.

_no wonder Mycroft hates goldfish_

Philip gulped down a swallow and stood up to lead Sherlock through the sleekly embossed double doors separating the reception area from the offices. They walked down a narrow corridor, passing a series of rather dull looking interrogation rooms lining them on both sides, worn rather dull carpet muting their footsteps.

“Erm, Mr. Holmes—”

“Definitely losing your job, _Philip_. And most definitely going to prison.”

As they walked, Sherlock thumbed out another text to John.

_I love you_

He deleted it.

________________________________________________________________

“Needless to say, Sherlock, threatening disposable employees will not break my chains in this _situation_.” Mycroft was sat behind a wooden table in a small but not wholly unpleasant interrogation room, unchained, still three-piece-suited but harried-looking after being held at Her Majesty’s pleasure for an indeterminate period of time. Sherlock was pacing the floor in front of the table from wall to wall, the two security staff successfully relegated to standing guard outside the door after a few rapid fire deductions involving erectile dysfunction, contagious skin conditions, and a particularly explicit wanking fantasy. People never did like those things unexpectedly made public, apparently.

“Treason Act 1351. ‘Adhering to the sovereign’s enemies, giving them aid and comfort, in the realm or elsewhere.’ Well done, Mycroft.”

“Obviously the claims on which these charges are based are patently false.”

Sherlock stopped and turned to roll his eyes at Mycroft. “Oh don’t.”

Mycroft peaked an irritated eyebrow. “Don’t?”

“Pretend you’re not a criminal mastermind.”

“Sherlock.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands together tightly on top of the table. “I’d thank you to remember that _I am currently facing_ _treason charges. With penalty of life imprisonment._ ”

“Ah, I’ve made a friend for you. You and Philip will get on marvelously, I can tell.”

“ _SHERLOCK!_ ” Mycroft never raised his voice except in rare moments, generally considering it pedestrian and insufferable. This, however, was one of those moments.

Sherlock swallowed down the seventeen snide comments he had prepared and said simply, “Magnussen.”

“Sorry?” Ah, a stifled and properly British variety of suppressed anger now. Mycroft’s natural milieu.

“This is something to do with Magnussen’s death.” Sherlock stopped pacing and raised his hands, gesturing as he spoke, eyes shifting rapidly back and forth from Mycroft’s tired face to his hands clenched on the desk. “You covered up Magnussen by agreeing to send me on a suicide mission. Lady Smallwood and the others disguised the truth of his death on your—” Mycroft fixed him with a particularly stern stare, “—on _our_ —”, Mycroft’s eyes narrowed impossibly further, “—on _my_ behalf. The video of Moriarty broadcast across London was a ruse for my return, which you deliberately set up to save me from my exile and my inevitable death. You then discovered the truth of Moriarty’s continued existence, but fortunately we were all fully protected by your inane operatives who also happened to be working for Moriarty and Moran. A year passed, the events at the pool occurred and—”

“—everything was wrapped up rather _neatly_ , yes. We all lived. The baddies, save Moran, all died. Looks a bit fishy, doesn’t it. That’s precisely what they believe: I must have been in cahoots with Moriarty or another operative in his network, passing along sensitive information until the very end. Saving us all from death and getting what I wanted in the meantime. My manipulation of the circumstances is exceptionally first-rate, and you, naturally, are spared.” Mycroft unclasped his hands and roughly rubbed his face. “But you’ve got it wrong, little brother. I wasn’t behind the video.”

“Then one of your moronic minions. Or Anthea.”

“Wrong.” Mycroft dropped his hands from his face. “Guess again.”

“I never guess.”

“I believe John Watson called you on that lie by the second day he knew you.”

Sherlock felt his stomach heat and tiny beads of sweat spring out of his palms at the mention of John.

Mycroft, inevitably, noticed. “Is he—”

“He’s coming, of course. I texted him.”

Mycroft gave him a once over. “Kind of you, letting him sleep.” He always knew just where to push.

Sherlock cleared his throat with a strange mixture of vengeance and acknowledgement. “Yes, well.” He took a step towards Mycroft. “The video.” Suddenly he knew, his eyes widening as the realisation raced through his brain and didn’t quite compute. “But why? _Why_ would she have done that? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“She didn’t hate you, in the end, Sherlock. Well, technically she did shoot you, but she saw what it did to John. She wasn’t heartless.”

“ _She killed me_ ,” Sherlock spat.

“Yes, well.” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose with two delicately placed fingers. “The video. _She_ didn’t do it, precisely. But she knew who did. Obviously it was Moran, but no method of… interrogation has pulled it out of him.”

“And—”

“Moran distributed the video on Moriarty’s behalf. Mary was in close connection with Moran, and was, for a time, employed as a British Secret Services operative under my jurisdiction.” Mycroft glanced at the door behind Sherlock. “You murder Magnussen, the video is broadcast on every television in England, perfectly timed and conveniently aborting your supposed exile, we endure a year of surprisingly minimal interaction, and then. The pool. The fluidity of the timing is rather suspicious.” He sighed. “It is unfortunate, of course." _  
_

“And Mary’s true identity will—”

“—provide evidence of—”

“I see.”

The brothers evaluated each other for a few moments.

“She played quite a role in all this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared at him. _  
_

Finally, Mycroft cleared his throat and uncrossed, then re-crossed his legs underneath the table. “You have the envelope, then?”

“Obviously.”

“And you told John that you took it. For safekeeping.”

Sherlock nodded once.

“Good.” Mycroft pursed his lips. “That’s good.”

A rap of knuckles on the interrogation room door and some muffled shouting interrupted the next round of glaring between the brothers. After a moment’s hesitation it was thrust open and John appeared in its entrance, shoulders of his jacket wet with melting snow, cheeks rubbed angry and pink from the cold, blue eyes narrowed and suspicious, voice indignant.

“What in the bloody _hell_ is going on?”

John was beautiful. John was beloved.

Sherlock reached in his pocket and pulled out the envelope.

What he _didn’t_ pull out of his pocket was an ordinary-looking, rectangular memory stick, carefully marked with four letters drawn in black ink that marked the smooth silver like a stain.

 

________________________________________________________________

 

“We agreed.”

“We didn’t agree.”

“John—”

“You’re asking me to use Mar—my dead wi— _her_ real identity as leverage against the British government in order to prove your brother innocent of treason charges.” John glanced over at Sherlock. “A plan which has no guarantee of working and, if anything, will probably completely backfire. Your brother’s trial is set for the end of the month!”

“Then we have a month to prepare.”

“Sherlock. This is the plan? You’re actually asking me this.”

“Yes, I am actually asking you this.”

“Do you actually want me to punch you in the face—” John deadpanned as he strode past a row of lifts and took a right turn.

“John. Stop.” Sherlock grabbed at his arm, forcing them to a standstill in the cramped corridor. After some skillful manipulation and a few additional deductions, Sherlock had secured them clearance to visit Moran in his holding cell somewhere in the bowels of the Security Services building. Philip already having been arrested, they were without an escort. A rather bored and pompous woman was initially assigned to monitor them but Sherlock immediately saw to it that she left them alone. Something about sleeping with the Prime Minister’s wife… boring.

John crossed his arms over his chest. “This envelope is all you have to go on, Sherlock.” He cocked an eyebrow and worked his jaw. “So we’ll know her real name. So what. How does that prove Mycroft didn’t do anything.”

Sherlock crowded him. “But there’s more than the envelope. John, I—”

“Sherlock Holmes!” A tall, lanky man glided down the corridor toward them, a blond mop of hair falling down into his eyes, betraying the clean cut of his very expensive grey suit. “Christ, what happened to your face?” He extended a hand for Sherlock to shake.

“John, this is Mark Price.” Sherlock, with a modicum of disgust only noticed by John, took the man’s hand. “We were at uni together. With Seb.” He cleared his throat and let their hands drop, hastily tucking his hands back into the pockets of the Belstaff. “John Watson,” he said, gesturing with his head as more hand shaking took place.

_you don’t deserve to touch him, Mark_

_you don’t deserve to breathe the same air as John_

“Oh, you know Seb? I’m sure he’s told you about all the stuff this frea—”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it,” John cut him off. “We’re in a bit of a hurry actually.”

“The famous duo then. You two back at it? What’s happened that Mycroft needs his baby brother following us all around? Someone’s cheating has gone dreadfully awry?” He smirked, blue eyes shining. “Lost dog, was it?”

“In fact—” Sherlock began.

“Piss off, Mark.” John grabbed Sherlock by the arm, turning their backs as he started them back down the corridor. “And pleasure to meet you,” he called sarcastically over his shoulder as he pushed Sherlock down some stairs in front of him.

_I love you I love you I love you_

The words were humming on Sherlock’s tongue.

“Fuck him,” John swore as he marched down the stairs behind Sherlock. “I mean, fuck all of this, but especially that arrogant sod. What gives him any right to be such a fucking prick. Trivialising what you do. What _we_ do.”

_I love you I love you I love you_

If he wasn’t careful, the words might escape.

Eventually they would, he knew.

Sherlock thought… maybe that would be alright.

 

________________________________________________________________

 

“Ah, the detective and the doctor.”

“Sebastian Moran, we meet again. Your circumstances seem to have changed.” Sherlock strode swiftly across the spacious room as John eased the door shut behind them. Two uniformed and armed men stood posted on either side of the long interrogation table, a flickering spotlight hanging from the center of the ceiling casting the only low light in the space and spreading long shadows against the blank drab walls. Moran was sat in a chair in the corner of the room dressed in a grey jumpsuit, hands and feet handcuffed in pairs, handcuffed again, and then fastened to the chair. His spectacles were slightly askew on his nose, which was bleeding almost lazily.

“I’ve heard about your brother’s predicament,” he smiled at Sherlock. “Don’t bother asking.” His eyes looked wild and wrong.

“I’m not asking.” Sherlock snuck a glance over to John, who was standing arms crossed beside him in front of the chained man.

“You’re not?”

“No. You see we’re not interested in you. We’re interested in Mary.”

Moran smirked. “She’s dead.”

Sherlock felt John tense slightly beside him.

“She is.” Sherlock acknowledged. “But rather unfortunately for you and fortunately for us, you’re still alive. Although I’m sure these interrogations will continue as long as you continue being _helpful_ ,” he said, spitting out the word. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and ignored the painful pull in his shoulder as he inched closer to Moran. “Now tell me: when did you two strike up your little arrangement? Was it before or after she murdered one of your competitors in Sri Lanka? Perhaps when the CIA released her for negligence and misconduct after a botched operation here in London?”

John cleared his throat rather forcefully.

Moran yawned. “You think you’re so clever.”

Sherlock continued. “Was it after she befriended your niece? Family connections tend to make things easier, don’t they.”

John looked over, brow furrowed. “What—”

“You can’t prove any of that.” Moran face morphed into a gruesome snarl.

Sherlock reached into the pocket of his Belstaff. “But Mary can.” He fixed Moran with a particularly piercing stare. “And lucky for us, she did.” The silver memory stick gleamed under the low light, the four initials a black stain in the palm of Sherlock’s hand. John’s jaw dropped, the vein in his forehead starting to bulge beneath his skin.

_let me explain_

“Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock. I burnt—that—I threw it in a bloody fire—what the hell—” John started, voice rising with each word.

“So you did, John.” Sherlock looked into his eyes, dark and heavy. “But there were two. She made a copy of the original, either to use as leverage eventually or as a tool for her protection, I suppose.”

“How—”

“She had it hidden away in the safehouse. After you left hospital, I went to search for additional documentation of her identity and found it tucked inside—”

“And you were going to tell me this when?”

“The moment never presented itself, exactly.”

“Never had a moment to tell me that last night did you.”

Moran burst into a laugh. “Last night?” His laugh was disgusting, wet and raw and slimy deep in his chest. “So it is true.”

“Or this morning, Sherlock?” John continued, fuming. “Couldn’t spare a moment to let me in on this new bit of information.”

“John, there’s a reason—”

“Last night _and_ this morning? What a slag.” Moran interrupted, eyes trained on Sherlock. “So you’ve let him fuck you properly? Face to face? Or does he make you—”

Without a hint of warning, John spun around and punched the words out of Moran’s mouth, splitting his bottom lip with a satisfying _smack_ in one well-placed and well-deserved blow _._

“Step away! Stand back!” came the shouts from the surprised guards, who jumped forward to wrap their arms around John, pulling him from Moran and nearly hoisting him off his feet.

“I don’t just _fuck_ him.” John spat, glaring at Moran’s bloody smile, as they were tossed out of the room and shoved down the corridor. The door slammed behind them as they were escorted roughly into a heavily guarded lift which, when it opened again, took them to another series of corridors lined with holding rooms. Led through an endless maze, finally they were sent to another rather dull looking room where John was forced to fill out a small stack of paperwork constituting charges of assault against a detainee of the British government. The moment that the small stack of paperwork went unattended, Sherlock promptly ripped up the pages into innumerable pieces, an act that he immediately got himself handcuffed for. Several hours later ( _Mycroft of no help, thanks to his own inconvenient detention_ ) and after some rather wearisome pleading by Lestrade ( _bless Graham, will have to be slightly less rude to him next time_ ) they were released back into the wintery heart of London.

 

________________________________________________________________

 

“You’re offended.”

“Yeah, picked up on that, did you.” John rubbed at the split and bleeding knuckles on the back of his left hand, not yet healed from the events at the pool and now torn open again. “Bloody hell.”

Tucked into a cab back to Baker Street, now well after midnight, they studiously avoided making eye contact with each other as they flew through the snow-covered streets, familiar shapes and colours blurring and blending together outside the frosty windows. Successions of streetlamps and Tube signs reflected multicoloured patterns onto the side of John’s face. The steamy, stale heat from the air vents was unbearable. The cabbie’s pine-scented aftershave was dreadful. It was all too hot, too close, too much. Sherlock glanced over again at John.

“About the memory stick,” Sherlock started.

“No.” John sighed. “But you should have told me immediately. You know that.”

“Hm.” Sherlock looked down at his feet by way of apology. “Then it’s because of what he insinuated about us. You hate it.”

“Hate what.” John was staring out the window, absently rubbing his hand. Useless. Pointless. He was getting blood everywhere.

“You hate it when people think we’re together. You always correct them.” He lowered his voice. “We haven’t _fucked face to face_ , have we. And you made sure Moran knew that,” Sherlock hissed.

John glanced up at the oblivious cabbie and then finally turned to meet his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“You resort to punching a man in the face when he presumes we’ve been sexually intimate, which we have, three times now if you count a year ago October, and naturally I count it because that was the first time and I’ve memorised and catalogued every detail of it, and I’ve memorised and catalogued every detail of the other times too, by the way, and yet you still cannot acknowledge that—”

“You wanker. Didn’t you hear what I said?” John interrupted. “To Moran. What I said to him.”

“What.”

“I said I don’t just fuck him.”

“So.”

“So.” John looked at him expectantly, as if _so_ was a perfectly adequate answer.

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

“I don’t _just_ fuck him.” John stressed. “ _Just_.”

“What—”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John raised his voice. “’Just’ implies that I _am_ fucking you!”

The cabbie glanced back at them. “All right then, lads?”

“Fucking you and something else besides,” John murmured.

The words lodged somewhere behind Sherlock’s third and fourth ribs on his left side. He could feel them become part of the molecular structure of his cells, woven into his chromosomes.

London was a beautiful snowy blur outside the window. The heat in the cab made his palms sweaty, his empty stomach ached, and his skin itched for John.

“Stop the cab,” he shouted to the cabbie, his hand already scrambling for the door handle.

“You said Baker Street—”

“Close enough.” Sherlock threw some cash on the seat and climbed out, pulling John by the arm and slamming the door shut behind them. He pushed John out of the street and onto the pavement, backing him up against the greasy front window of a particularly good Chinese that they used to frequent regularly before… well, before all of it.

Sherlock prepared himself.

_this is the man that you love_

_don’t be an idiot_

_choose your words carefully_

John kissed him on the mouth. 

From the window behind them, a Lucky Cat waved its approval.

 

________________________________________________________________

 

The trek back to Baker Street was longer than either of them had remembered it. After stuffing their bellies full to the brim with fried rice and egg rolls and Sherlock half-successfully deducing John’s message ( _Fortune favours the brave_ , and so what if he may have hidden away the tiny slip of paper deep into his pocket when John went to the loo, it wasn’t sentiment), they bundled up against the cold and drifted slowly down the pavement underneath the softly falling snow. Sherlock tucked his scarf tightly around his neck and burrowed into the surprisingly comforting feeling of feeling full and the not-surprisingly comforting feeling of having John beside him. Their breath escaped in swirls and lingered above their heads, mixing with exhaust from passing cabs and cigarette smoke from passing tourists as they shuffled parallel paths through the snow. They discussed the memory stick, the envelope. Mycroft’s trial. They argued and planned. They agreed. 

They were drawn once again into each other’s orbits. Each a sun for the other’s moon.

Contentedly food-drunk and exhausted, they stumbled up the seventeen steps to 221B, the flat blessedly silent with Mrs. Hudson at her sister’s, and immediately collapsed on Sherlock’s— _their_ —bed, shoes on, coats twisted under their bodies, snowflakes melting tiny patterns into the sheets like damp halos around their heads.

“Let’s have a kip and then we’ll work on the memory stick,” John mumbled into his pillow. He was asleep within four minutes, his breathing slow and steady. Sherlock watched his eyelids flicker.

“What got lost between us,” he whispered against John’s arm, “and how did we find it again.”

Sherlock slept.

 

***

 

Two hours later he woke to the rather inconvenient sensation of blood and fluid seeping out of the bullet wound in his shoulder and soaking into his shirt, sopping wet and sticky and warm against his skin. Sherlock clenched his teeth and groaned as he rolled flat onto his back. Shouldn’t have fallen asleep on his side. He really was an idiot, sometimes. Careful not to wake John, he slid off the bed and shed his coat and clothing ( _pants too, why not_ ) into a heap at his feet, reaching up to touch his bare shoulder with curious fingers. They came back crimson.

Sherlock experienced the familiar disappointment of how dreadfully _human_ he was sometimes. Bad news for the Work. But John seemed to like it, when he was human…

He looked down to the S-shaped curl of John’s body in his bed. _Their_ bed.

He felt himself smile.

_who was I before this man_

_I was an outline_

The tiny _plop_ of a drop of blood running off the tip of his finger onto the floor startled him from his reverie. Shivering and remembering he hadn’t had the heaters on in ages ( _why bother_ ), he slid a rumbled sheet out from under John’s left ankle and wrapped it close around his naked body. He pulled open the door to the loo, closing it softly behind him before flicking on the small light tucked onto the shelf in the corner above the toilet. John had stashed extra medical supplies in the cabinets on the regular during the height of their adventures together, surely there would be some leftover gauze and antibacterial ointment somewhere. Sherlock rummaged through the random detritus that had somehow made its way into his cabinets: a half-empty box of bright pink bandages, a metre-long piece of nylon rope, two pairs of medical-grade extraction tweezers tagged with “Property of Barts Morgue”, an empty tea mug (into which Sherlock gave a sniff, _Earl Grey, John’s_ ), a pocket-sized torch, four strains of _peptostreptococcus_ he had forgotten about (still sealed, thankfully)…ah, yes. Some ordinary gauze and ointment. He twisted open the cap to squeeze some onto a finger as he heard a soft knock on the closed door.

“John?” Of course it was John. Idiot.

The door opened, John’s face patterned with creases that crisscrossed up his cheek from the pillow. The hair on the left side of his head stuck straight up. He was still fully clothed. He looked wrinkled and rumpled and warm and so—

“Sherlock?” He squinted in the dim light of the bathroom, taking a moment to notice first the sheet and then the blood and then Sherlock’s sorry attempt at trying to self-administer medical treatment. “You all right—what are you...?”

“I’m fine. Completely, absolutely, one hundred percent fine,” Sherlock said in his practice perfect I’m-acting-casual-but-actually-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing voice as he dropped the tube of ointment and then dropped the gauze.

Into the open toilet.

“Oi, come off it. Let me.” John smirked, eyes crinkling at the corners.

(Later, much later, Sherlock will be able to acknowledge to himself that perhaps he was clumsy just _slightly_ on purpose so that John would help him.

He had missed it, after all.)

John pulled open the drawer underneath to the sink basin and lifted out a perfectly sealed and quite substantial medical supplies kit. Inside were riches Sherlock had never known. He gave John an incredulous look.

“Since when was that in there?”

“Since The Aluminium Crutch,” John said softly as he shed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves before washing his hands. He forced Sherlock to sit on the side of the bathtub, gently cleaned his wounds, spread over a thin layer of new ointment, and wrapped him up in fresh gauze and bandages. Sherlock was quiet while he worked, breathing in the smell of him.

“You remember that cabbie, Sherlock?”

“Roland-Kerr Further Education College. You killed him on the second day you knew me.”

“He died from this same injury.”

“So he did.”

They lapsed into calm silence again. John’s movements were precise and practiced. Steady. Reassuring. Sherlock briefly considered requiring the need for additional medical treatment just so he could sit on the edge of the tub and have John poke and prod and love him through the touch of ten small fingers.

“And your nose?”

“Fine.” Their eyes met. The air between them suddenly sizzled and blurred. John looked away to toss the used gauze in the bin and wash his hands again.

When he finished, he swallowed and found Sherlock’s eyes.

“You know," he started, quietly, "I should be devastated. My wife is dead. My child never even existed. But truth is I’m… sort of relieved. And I hate it. That I feel that way, I mean.” He set his hands on his hips, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m angry too. I feel like a fucking fool.”

Sherlock was quiet, appraising John. “No reason to feel guilty. What happened, happened. You couldn’t prevent it.”

A moment passed in silence. John seemed to be deciding something. “How do you think I felt watching you, Sherlock? Standing there helpless while you jumped off a bloody roof. Feeling for your pulse—” John’s voice cracked. He clenched his jaw, fighting himself.

“John.”

“I don’t know. Maybe somehow things are easier to lose if you don’t have to watch them be lost. Or watch yourself losing them.” 

“You didn’t see Mary die.” 

“Exactly.” He sniffed and set his shoulders. “You made me watch.”

Sherlock felt the burden of the last two years weigh heavy again. “How many times are you going to make me say it, John.”

“I’m still waiting.”

“John, I’m sorr—”

“Nope.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

“This.”

John reached out and slowly grasped Sherlock’s right hand with his left, holding it carefully under his own, then bringing it to his chest and placing Sherlock’s fingers over the middle button on his shirt.

“And this,” John whispered.

He nudged the long narrow fingers until they got the idea. Sherlock slipped the button through the hole, slowly, deliberately, and then next, and the next, up and down the shirt until it hung open and loose on John’s shoulders. He shrugged it to the floor. Heat poured from his bare skin.

“And especially this.”

John kept his eyes on Sherlock’s and gradually moved their hands down to his waistband, down over his flies, resting his fingers lightly on the button, then heavier on the zip. He pinched Sherlock’s thumb and index finger in-between his own, twisted the button free of the hole, pulled down the zip agonisingly slowly (the sound, _the very sound_ was making Sherlock’s blood _do things_ in his body), and then grasped Sherlock’s other hand to thread some fingers through two belt loops, one on each side of his waistband, tugging his trousers down over his thighs…over his calves...off.

“But mostly this,” came the last whisper.

John pushed his lips into the dip at the base of Sherlock’s throat, his tongue slipping out to taste the patch of salty sweet skin stretched there. He sucked a kiss into the small space and unhurriedly wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, hands spread wide, fingertips pressing hot into Sherlock’s skin through the thin sheet. Sherlock shivered.

“John.”

“Hm.”

John licked a narrow line up the side of Sherlock’s neck, sucking another kiss under the curve of his jaw below his ear as he rubbed his hands down Sherlock’s back, fingers teasing into the spaces between the folds of the sheet draped over his arse. He slowly, slowly, _slowly_ closed the distance between their bodies and pressed his hips into Sherlock, wedging a knee between two thin thighs and rolling his erection into the shallow valley between hip and leg, tenderly kissing a circle of freckles over the top of a creamy pale shoulder.

An embarrassing noise _that was not a whimper_ escaped from Sherlock’s lips.

John tilted his head back.

“All right?”

_a month apart_

_your eyes in the corridor after I told you about Magnussen_

_the way the corner of your mouth twitched_

_it was a smile_

_it was_

Sherlock spun them around and pinned John against the wall, crushing their mouths together, lips and tongues slick and sliding and finding their way over each other. John tasted like fried rice and Earl Grey and promises and _wet_ and he was _so warm_ and it took Sherlock three minutes to realise that he was unintentionally panting into John’s mouth with want. He let his hands graze over the solid lines of John’s body, tracing shoulders, arms, chest, stomach, up and down and back again and then dropping them to John’s waist, pressing into his hips, pulling John closer until their cocks were finally aligned, nestled hot and tight and stiff between their bellies. John’s hands had found their way underneath the sheet to Sherlock’s bare arse, his fingers spread and kneading into the muscles there as he rolled his hips in a shallow thrust, their cocks rubbing over each other in a way that made Sherlock’s vision narrow and his palms prick with sweat.

“God your arse,” John breathed.

Sherlock sucked an earlobe into his mouth and was rewarded with feeling John melt against him, his tongue caressing the nub of soft skin as he tried to catch his breath. Behind his ribs, his heart was thrumming fast through the sheet against John’s chest. He knew what could happen next, what might happen next if he let it, if he wanted it.

And _oh my fucking god_ he wanted it.

He pulled his head away to meet John’s eyes but kept his body pressed up against him. John looked delightfully debauched with swollen lips and flushed cheeks and ruffled hair and eyes that said things that Sherlock didn’t have to use any deductive powers to understand, eyes that said _want_ and _you_ and _now_.

Sherlock let the sheet drop to the ground.

John’s eyes said _devour_.

Sherlock palmed the length of John’s erection through the thin fabric of his pants.

John’s eyes said _yes_.

_you touched my knee on your stag night_

_your hand on my knee_

_the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed should have told me_

_you tried to tell me_

Sherlock dropped to his knees and mouthed wet and hot at the fabric stretched over the head of John’s cock, fingers of one hand caressing the bulge of his bollocks while the fingers of the other whispered their way around the side of his hip, into the crease between his arse and the back of his thigh. John threaded his hands through Sherlock’s curls and arched his back away from the bathroom wall, jerking forward as Sherlock deftly dipped two long fingers into the y-fly opening of John’s pants and pulled out his cock, which swiftly disappeared between the curves of a cupid’s bow and a plump bottom lip into depths of silky dark heat. Sherlock felt the heavy weight of John against his tongue, his smooth hot skin filling his mouth, thick and solid and _John_.

“Oh fuck, Sherlock.” John let his head fall back against the wall. 

Sherlock hummed around John’s cock, working the head with his tongue, sucking and swallowing and watching John watch him, as John watched Sherlock’s own cock bounce up and down as he thrust his hips against air, against nothing, desperate for friction but also desperate to not let the taste and weight of John leave his mouth. Anything John wanted, _anything_ , he wanted to do. 

_this is what it’s like_

_this is what it’s like_

_to love_

_this way_

“Sher—Sherlock— _oh god_ ,” John pulled at Sherlock’s hair with one hand and rubbed the back of his neck, a curl wrapped around his middle finger, with the other. The loo was filled with a combination of the soft sucking sounds of Sherlock’s mouth around John’s prick and low rough groans escaping from deep in John’s chest, both men lost together. Sherlock tasted the tang of John’s precome in the back of his throat and swallowed as he pulled off, wrapping his own fist around his cock, pushing John’s pants down to his ankles and then burrowing his nose into the crease of John’s hip and groin, the tip of his tongue curious and gentle against his skin. John made a throaty noise and stared down at Sherlock’s hand working over the length of himself. Sherlock opened his mouth to take him in again.

“I—let me—” He reached down and half-pulled him up to his feet, hand immediately closing snug around Sherlock’s cock, stroking firmly, their mouths finding each other again and opening into a deep kiss. John’s lips told Sherlock about loss and fear and lust. John’s hand wrapped around him told him about want. John’s body, devotion.

_two years apart_

_you threw me to the ground_

_you hit my face, split my lip_

_you left without me_

_but you wanted to stay_

Sherlock felt himself thicken in the palm of John’s hand as John rubbed a thumb across the head of his cock and then shifted it into his other hand. Sherlock stared at him as John sucked the precome off of his thumb into his mouth.

Standing became impossible.

Not having John inside of him became impossible.

Sherlock dragged them out of the loo and threw them both onto the unmade bed, John on top of Sherlock and then Sherlock on top of John, limbs tangled and mouths open, breathing hot over each other’s skin. They kissed each other like they were drowning, desperate and definite.

“Stay on top of me—your—”

“—my shoulder,” Sherlock finished.

John pressed his lips to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth as Sherlock spread his legs and straddled John’s hips, wrapping a hand around both of their cocks and starting to stroke them off together, bending down to lick his way back into John’s mouth. As they kissed, John rubbed his hands up and down the smooth skin of Sherlock’s pale thighs and over his arse, his fingers gradually pressing back further and further towards…

“Go on,” Sherlock moaned against him.

John rested a fingertip against the tight ring as he stroked the soft skin behind Sherlock’s bollocks, his other hand massaging the muscles of his arse cheek. Sherlock felt a delicious heat coil behind the base of his cock. He deepened their kiss and tightened his grip, keeping his pace steady as he worked their cocks over each other in the palm of his hand, slick with pre-come but—

“Do you— _christ_ —do you—” John murmured against his mouth.

“Hhhh,” Sherlock breathed as his hips and arse pushed back on their own accord against John’s finger, pressing gently against his opening.

“Um. If you. We need some—lube—” John’s hands slowed and then went still, hot and teasing against him as he sucked on Sherlock’s bottom lip.

Sherlock wanted John. _In. Now._

“Uh.” He couldn’t seem to think of any words.

“Have any?” John whispered into his ear. “Jesus please say yes—”

“Uh.” Sherlock swallowed, blinking rapidly to try to get his brain back online. “Out there. Cutlery and slides drawer.”

John smirked, the curve of his mouth completely intolerable without Sherlock’s mouth on it. “Odd place.”

“Experiment.” 

“Wanking in the kitchen, were you?” John laughed against his jaw.

“John.” Sherlock pulled back his head to meet his eyes, his expression grave.

“Oh god, Sherlock, I’m just—”

“Fuck me.” Sherlock whispered. “ _Now._ ”

John scrambled out from underneath him and practically ran out of the bedroom down the corridor to the kitchen. Sherlock stayed on all fours but let his head drop down onto bed, new beads of sweat mussing and fraying the curls on his forehead. He shivered from the absence of John beneath him.

_your face_

_the look in your eyes_

_when I was dead_

_when you died with me_

Within moments John reappeared in the doorway, plastic bottle of lube tucked in the palm of his hand. “It actually was where you said it would—christ, Sherlock. Arse in the air and everything.” His other hand dropped down to his own cock and closed around himself as he crossed over to the bed in two long strides. He tossed the bottle next to Sherlock’s head and smoothed a hand over his back as he began to stroke himself again. “Do you realise—do you know—” He gave up.

Sherlock smiled, pushing into John’s touch, pushing his hips and arse back against him. He reached a hand up between his legs and felt for John’s hand stroking his own cock.

“On the bed.”

John obeyed, letting his prick spring free of his grasp and crawling onto the bed next to Sherlock, turning onto his back as Sherlock straddled his legs and rubbed his cock lightly over John’s, their bollocks nestled into each other. John grabbed for the bottle of lube, flipped open the cap and squirted some into his fingers.

_the graveyard_

_near that church_

_I meant what I said, John_

_I’ve only got one_

“I should tell you—” Sherlock leaned down for a wet kiss. 

“Hm—” John smoothed the lube over his fingers and tucked them back up behind Sherlock’s cock and bollocks, his index finger pressing slightly against Sherlock’s hole as his thumb massaged gently into his perineum.

“—that I was tested— _John_ —after— _hhnnn_ —” Sherlock licked at John’s upper lip and sucked it into his mouth, then moaned as John started to push his finger milimetre by milimetre into him, “—after the drugs—stuff—” he panted as John burrowed his finger deeper, deeper, “—and I’m. I’m clean.”

“Good. Me too.” John was moving his finger inside of him, stretching him open rhythmically, purposefully, moving deliberately, searching…

“And— _hhuuh_ —I shhhhould tell y-you—”

_oh fuck_

Sherlock’s vision went white. 

“Found it.” John whispered.

“ _Ahhh hnnnhhhnghh._ ” Sherlock tried.

_I followed you and you didn’t answer her_

_the woman_

_look at us both, she said_

_you didn’t answer her_

_for once_

John eased in another finger and moved again within him, kissing into Sherlock’s open mouth and rubbing his arse with his other hand as he slowly, gently, tenderly worked him open, fingertips brushing steadily against Sherlock’s prostate.

_if this is with his fingers_

_what about his_

“ _John John John_ ,” Sherlock tried again. “Tell you.” He swallowed.

“Hang on, Sherlock,” John murmured between leaving kisses onto his neck. “ _Almost_ …” He stretched his fingers wider and deeper inside, pressing softly against the nub of nerve endings and delicate tissue. Sherlock stroked John’s side, trailing his fingers up and over ribs and hipbones as John kept rubbing behind Sherlock’s bollocks with his thumb and sucking a dark spot onto the pale skin stretched over his collarbone.

Sherlock couldn’t see anymore.

He was desperate. He panted into John’s neck.

He adored John.

“ _Please_ ,” he sighed into the helix of John’s ear.

John stopped for a moment, then smoothly slid his fingers out of Sherlock and grabbed him by the hips, gripping him tight. Sherlock lifted his head. Something in John’s eyes was familiar and terrifying, something he was hungry for, something he had only seen in glimpses and in moments that had disappeared.

“Listen to me, Sherlock.”

_oh no_

_did I do it wrong_

“I know.” He swallowed. “It’s.” He cleared his throat and relaxed his hands a bit on Sherlock’s hips. “The thing is.” Sherlock waited. John’s fingertips felt like ten small kisses on his skin. “Are you—you want. This. With me.” He thumbed down Sherlock’s bottom lip with his other hand and kissed him softly on the mouth.

“Hm.” Sherlock was soaked with love through to his bones. "Please."

_not wrong_

John deepened their kiss, his tongue sliding warm and wet inside his mouth as Sherlock, still kneeling and straddling him, edged his arse down lower and lower, pressing the slick head of John’s cock against his opening. John reached down between his legs underneath Sherlock’s body, spread more lube over himself and held Sherlock close, gripping his hip with one hand and steadying his own cock with the other.

“All right?” John whispered, sweaty and low, against his mouth.

Sherlock nodded. John slowly raised his hips off the bed, rolling them up, pushing _so_ _slowly, so slowly, so so so slowly, deliciously slowly, stretching, spreading him open, opening him, and filling, filling, filling_ until he was deep inside of Sherlock.

Sherlock could feel him.

_this is what it’s like_

_this is what it’s like_

_this is what it’s like_

_to love John_

_and for him_

_to love_

_me_

They didn’t move for a moment, just stared wide-eyed at each other. John bit his bottom lip and gave a tentative thrust. Sherlock realised his mouth was hanging open. He let it hang open as John gave another thrust, rolling his hips deliberately at an angle to brush against that little nub that had made Sherlock’s vision go white a few minutes earlier.

Sherlock’s vision went white.

“ _Nhhgggnnn_.” Sherlock moaned. John thrust again, harder this time. “ _Hhhhhhhh_ ,” he added, panting open-mouthed. He leaned down for another kiss. John’s mouth was a place he wanted to taste… he wanted John’s mouth… John’s mouth was…

Sparks shot through his body, down every thread of nerve to its ending, illuminating him from the inside out. He was sure his skin was glowing, iridescent, John’s love lighting him up from the inside, making him electric. John made him feel electric.

_we agreed to die together_

_where little Carl died_

_I held the gun and you pulled the trigger_

He could feel the head of John’s cock pressing up _again, again, again_ against his prostate, John’s hand wrapped around his prick, slick and hot and sliding _again, again, again_ and he loved John, he loved John, he loved John, he loved John...

John’s hips were thrusting steady and strong, pushing deeper and deeper into Sherlock, the bedroom quiet save for their rapid breathing and for sound of John’s thighs slapping against Sherlock’s arse, skin hot and sweaty and salty and made of love, made of John, made of his love for John and John’s love for him. John sucked a deep breath into his lungs through clenched teeth, his hand working over Sherlock’s cock, pulling and stroking, pulling and stroking, _again, again, again_.

_the code, John_

_numbers come in pairs_

_numbers have partners_

“ _Oh, Sherlock, fuck_ ,” John chanted. “ _You’re brilliant. You’re fucking brilliant_.” He rolled his hips faster. “ _Fucking. Brilliant,_ ” stretching out the last word on an exhale as he pushed up deeper into Sherlock’s body, letting go of Sherlock’s cock to wrap his hand around his neck and pull him down for a kiss, his tongue sliding between open lips into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock pushed John’s left arm up over his head, pinning him down by his wrist, balancing his weight and then twisting their fingers together, kissing him back.

Sherlock couldn’t think of any words to say.

Words were things that didn’t matter.

Things that mattered included John and also John and what John was doing right now and John also mattered as well.

_we giggled at a crime scene_

_after you came to me and I came to you_

_on an ordinary day in January_

 

_Fortune favours the brave_

 

He was grinding down on John’s cock, pelvis rocking back and forth in a rhythm against John’s pounding, that sublime liquid heat spreading again through his belly, across his hips, deep into his groin, tightening into a glorious ball of tension as John massaged his prostate with the head of his cock deep inside of him and kissed his mouth swollen. John’s right hand closed perfectly around Sherlock’s erection, hips jerking sporadically as the mattress groaned beneath them, feet pressed flat onto the bed, Sherlock pushing back on his cock, arse pressed against his legs, John’s left hand tucked securely under Sherlock’s right one, the shadows of an orgasm building as John thrust _faster and deeper, faster and deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper_

_to love John_

_and for him_

_to love_

_me_

Sherlock read love in the lines of John’s face, pressed a closed-mouth kiss to his sweaty temple, and absolutely covered John’s abdomen and hand with thick pulses of silky come.

Fourteen seconds later he felt John grow even bigger inside him and then spill himself into the depths of his body, John’s muscles clenching and tensing underneath Sherlock’s arse and thighs, rubbing slick against his skin.

They grinned at each together. It was all over. Years of it.

Now was the beginning of something else.


	10. and I don't know the kind of person you are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't leave  
> Cause I believe  
> We were meant to sleep in the dirt
> 
> If you doubt  
> That I'll be there  
> Don't despair  
> Don't you dare
> 
> In the Dirt ~ S. Carey
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
>  [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/npGFVYtGcE8)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a very brief reference to suicidal thoughts.

John let his head fall back onto the bed, the aftereffects of his orgasm spinning out through every fibre of his spent muscles. Sherlock looked absolutely dazed.

John felt pretty good.

Actually, John felt fucking _sublime_.

_Sherlock and I_

_My cock is_

_in_

_his_

_arse_

_and it is_

_Fucking_

_Brilliant_

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. That was.” He realised that his chest was heaving, his breath coming in and out in rapid bursts. “Fantastic.”

Sherlock stared unabashedly at John, his blue-green eyes hazy and rosy-pink lips parted into a small round o. A thin sheen of sweat on his curves of his cupid’s bow glistened in the muted light spilling into the bedroom from the open bathroom door. Half of the curls on his forehead were stuck to his skin and his face was a symphony of healing bruises in shades of purple and blue and John loved him.

John _loved_ him.

“John.” It was an awed whisper. _  
_

“Hey, you.”

John gently eased his softening cock out of Sherlock with one hand and affectionately reached up to him with the other, tracing a few fingers gently over his jaw. Sherlock was still wide-eyed and frozen, bent on his knees above John and half sitting on his thighs.

“Sherlock. You okay?”

“Uh.” A few rapid blinks and a hastily cleared throat indicated a Sherlockian mental reset. “Yes. I’m alright. I’m…” John quickly found himself the target of a familiar laser-eyed, penetrating stare. “You’re quite. Good. At the, you know.” Blink blink blink. Blink blink. Blink. “Doing sex. That way.”

John smiled and teased him with a wink. “You make it easy.” Sitting on his lap was a nearly forty-year-old man who relished terrifying people to tears on a regular basis, who happened to be the same man who currently had John’s come slowly dripping out of his arse into a tidy little pool on the duvet. A man who looked as if he had been hit in the back of the head with a cricket bat. A rather vulnerable, tad bit overwhelmed man. It was quite… endearing. “C’ mere then. Can’t have you looking like that and so far away.” John rubbed the tip of his thumb under Sherlock’s bottom lip and gestured for him to lie down beside him on the disheveled bed.

“Um.” _  
_

Sherlock tenderly wiped his come off of John’s chest and belly with a bunched up fistful of the duvet and then pulled it out from under their bodies to toss into a heap on the floor. He flopped down next to John and curled onto his side, momentarily forgetting his injured shoulder and groaning as he remembered. John felt a slender forearm sneak over his chest, five long fingers splay themselves over his ribs, the nudge of a bony knee against his thigh. He sucked a deep breath in through his nose, content in the masculine, heady scent of sex and Sherlock, and turned his head to meet already half-lidded eyes.

“Feeling a bit worn out?” _  
_

“Hardly. Sex with you is incredibly invigorating, John.” A yawn and a kiss. “Never felt better.”

An additional five long fingers pushed themselves into the warm spaces between five of John’s not-as-long fingers.

John smiled and brushed black curls aside to press a kiss against dewy warm skin. He watched Sherlock’s pulse slowly beat through his carotid artery and hummed against him.

“Right. Positively energetic, you are.”

“I mean it,” came a mumbled reassurance as blue-green eyes finally slid closed.

Baker Street was remarkably quiet, the flat still and peaceful. The chill in the air had increased in the wee hours of the early morning and John involuntarily shivered. Sherlock had been silent for several minutes, his breathing slowing and deepening until it incorporated some soft snoring at regular intervals, when recognising his opportunity, John carefully eased off of the bed and tiptoed down the corridor into the sitting room to gather the blanket off the back of his chair.

Walking into the room, shadowed and cast in hues of blue and grey, John felt as though he was re-entering a long-lost dream from which he had been abruptly woken. Dust dressed the mantle, the wreckage of Sherlock’s erratic and half-consumed scraps of food and drink was scattered across nearly every flat surface, John’s old striped jumper was safely tucked into the sofa.

_This was my life_

_What I thought I would always have_

_Until I didn’t_

He shivered again, and as he reached down for the woolen blanket, noticed the crinkled edge of a yellow pad of paper sticking out from beneath the cushion of his chair. _Naturally, a regular thing kept in a weird place_ , he thought as he pulled it out, releasing with it a half-hearted cloud of dust.

The paper was covered in tallied hashmarks. Nearly 400, John gathered from a glance.

In the very top corner of the first page, in Sherlock’s uneven, loopy handwriting:

_days without John_

He stood there, flipping through the pages in his hands, Sherlock’s tidy little scratches lined up in rows on display, a melancholy testimony of another year apart. Renewed twinges of a familiar ache beat themselves rapidly into John’s heart.

_Stop it now_

_He’s in there_

_Sleeping like a baby_

_And you’re going to turn around_

_And go back to him_

He stuffed the pad back into its cushioned tomb and considered, momentarily, the thick envelope peeking out of the pocket of Sherlock’s coat. Ghosts of the past would have to be dealt with, invariably and inevitably, and that time was later, and would be met together, not alone.

But…

He slipped a hand into Belstaff and wrapped his fingers around the envelope, slid his a thumb a millimetre under the sealed flap and began to slowly push until something cold and metallic, followed by something else small and soft, brushed against the tips of his fingers. He closed his hand around the two items and pulled them out, inspected them, both laid naked and unassuming in his palm in the dim moonlight.

A coin, rim rubbed smooth, shot through the middle.

A tag, edges frayed, snipped from an oatmeal jumper.

John felt as though he had been physically punched in the chest.

There he stood and held Sherlock’s heart in his hand.

He stood and stared and cradled the little things for what felt like hours.

And he knew.

After a while he slid the coin and the tag back into the pocket, tucked the envelope safely in over the top, and turned down the corridor into the bedroom.

Sherlock was stretched out on the bed like a starfish, having sensed John’s absence and reached out for him in his sleep. A stray curl toppled over his forehead. His cheek was pressed heavy into the bed, his lips slightly parted.

_If this is what love is_

_Then I never knew it before him_

John eased himself down beside Sherlock on the bed and quietly spread the blanket over their nude bodies.

Sherlock stirred, eyes still closed. “I need you, John. To stay,” he murmured.

“Don’t worry.” _  
_

“Stay.”

“I’m not… Sherlock, I’m not leaving.”

“You left before.”

“I just went for the blanket.”

“No. Before.”

John paused for a few moments. It had been three years but as much as he tried to put it away… it hurt. He wanted to say, _You left too, you know_. _You left me before we knew what leaving me would do to us. You put on a show and made me watch you die but you killed me too and I’m only alive now because of someone I married to try to get over it_.

_And I am so in love with you. Always was, always will be._

But he didn’t. He didn’t say any of those things.

Instead, he said in as firm a voice as he could manage, “I’m not leaving you.”

They nestled into bed, into each other, realigned limbs sliding into place like puzzle pieces, fitting together as lovers do.

_Lovers_

_which we are_

_(now)_

_but somehow always were_

Two pink lips placed a tiny kiss on the very edge of John’s left shoulder.

Ten fingers, five long and five not-as-long, found themselves wrapped around and between each other again.

“Well. You’ve got me ‘til the end, John,” Sherlock mumbled, sleep coming back to claim him.

John tried to ignore the unexpectedly tight, salt-watery pull in the corners of his eyes. “Ours, you mean.” He dropped another kiss into the frayed mess of curls resting on his shoulder and forced down a thick swallow that caught as a lump in his throat. “Our end,” he whispered.

Sherlock’s only response was a muffled snore and a slow exhale of warm air over John’s bare chest. John let himself relax into the comforting warmth radiating off of Sherlock’s body and allowed the heavy weight of sated sleep to come for him as well.

_________________________________________________________

“John. Up. Now. Get up.”

“Mmph.” An unexpected explosion of bright light seared through John’s eyelids, a spectrum of red watercolours blurred and translated through skin. With his eyes closed, he could sense Sherlock pacing about the room and throwing open the window shades as he jabbed out texts with his thumbs. “Ugh, Sherl—”

“Hurry up. I’ve been in contact with Mycroft’s staff and we need to adjust our strategy for this case. Immediately.” John heard a flurried ruffle of fingers through curls, one of Sherlock’s habits when frustrated. “As in, immediately.”

“We did start yesterday—wait, what are you talking about?” John pushed himself to sitting, roughly rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with his fists as the blanket slipped down and off of his body.

_Oh.  
_

Still very naked from the night before, he now had a very massive hard-on, thank you very much. _  
_

He looked over to Sherlock, who was standing in front of the window, tall and gorgeous and framed by drifts of falling show, completely engrossed in some important something or other on his phone. Sherlock, the man he loved. Sherlock, the point of it all. Sherlock, who was also conveniently completely starkers.

Well. Something had to be done.

“Clearly 2008 then. The Downs it is. Eleven o’clock, that is if we—”

John let his eyes wander over the thin lines of the pale, beautiful body in front of him. “Sherlock. Tell me after?”

Sherlock squinted his disapproval in John’s general direction.

“After _what_? Since I’ve apparently failed at making it clear, this is extremely urgent, John. What could possibly— _oh_.”

“You’ve noticed.”

Sherlock’s response didn’t come from his mouth.

John stretched luxuriously and swung his legs off the side of the bed before standing up and slowly crossing the room, giving Sherlock a fair view and then some. “You know.” He reached up to Sherlock’s chest and rubbed a fingertip across the small bud of a rosy pink nipple. “I could do with a shower.”

“I…think it might be necessary to… to prepare for our…” Sherlock’s eyes were trying very hard to meet John’s eyes but couldn’t quite manage that far north. “Quite right, we need to be….uh, properly cleansed or…something…”

“Mm, yes. Something.” John leaned in and up to taste the small patch of skin beneath Sherlock’s right ear. “Care to join me?” he breathed onto the fluttering pulse in Sherlock’s neck.

Thirty-two minutes later, they were both properly cleansed (or something). Sherlock’s frizzled explosion of curls was once again perfectly coifed, John’s face and jaw were freshly shaved, and each of them had experienced a rather spectacular orgasm (John in Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock between John’s thighs. That particular manoeuvre had resulted in a banged-up knee and a substantial amount of expensive conditioner down the drain, but Sherlock had made sounds that John was willing to create his own mind palace for in order to adequately catalogue and keep them).

Now sat across from each other in the kitchen with feet stacked like socked stones, Sherlock sipped from John’s steaming mug of Earl Grey and tabbed through documents uploaded to his laptop from the duplicate A.G.R.A. memory stick. Eyebrows furrowed, Sherlock pursed his lips as he worked, ribbons of tension slowly working their way into his jaw and betraying his façade of calm purpose. John thought about the pad of paper tucked under the cushion of his chair, the little tag from that bloody oatmeal jumper, the coin tattooed with a bullet hole. A triad, totems of Sherlock’s pain. _  
_

All thanks to him.

Less than a week ago, he’d woken up in a bed that wasn’t his in a safe house that wasn’t his next to a woman that wasn’t his either, really. A woman who he had married, a woman he had thought he’d loved, a woman who he thought had given birth to his child. Over the last several months he’d looked at coloured photos and succinctly-prepared reports about a chubby-cheeked baby who wasn’t his, a baby who’d never existed in the first place, not ever. A baby who was created not out of love but as leverage. _  
_

During that time Sherlock had once again been relegated to a collection of memories, a bittersweet taste in the back of John’s mouth as he swallowed down the words he wasn’t sure how to say. Sherlock, who had carried pieces of John in his pocket because they were too much to carry in his heart. Sherlock, who’d tallied the days like it was all just another experiment but hid them from view because it wasn’t. _  
_

John had tallied too, he realised.

Should he tell him that he knew about the pocket?

Sherlock blew ripples into the surface of the steaming hot tea and squinted at his screen as he clicked through the story of what went wrong between them.

Toes rubbed against toes.

Blood thudded through the pulse point in Sherlock’s throat and echoed in John’s ears.

_If anyone deserves to be together_

_It’s us_

“I agree,” Sherlock said clearly out of nowhere, which sent a jolt through John’s body.“Which is why we have to gather additional information about this period in her life.” His eyes were glued to his laptop.

“I didn’t say…” John smiled weakly, recognising a brief trip into the mind palace when he saw one. “Talking to yourself, then?”

Sherlock blinked and clicked and blinked.

“Sherlock.”

More blinks and clicks.

For a few minutes they sat in silence as John scratched mindlessly at his healing shoulder (he’d found some of his old jumpers stashed in the upstairs bedroom, rather surprisingly, as he hadn’t realised he’d left so many behind and Sherlock _had kept them all_ , but that was something to think about later)and resolutely shifted his eyes down towards the memory stick, its narrow silver form unobtrusive amidst the general debris of forgotten experiments scattered across the table.

_That’s all you are now, Mary_

_A client_

“—will be the key to establishing a timeline for the evolution—”

_So many dead people_

_A father and his child_

_An accident_

_It had to have been_

_She wouldn’t have known the boy was going to be there_

_Two lovers_

_In bed_

_Asleep_

“—of new relationships using the false identity… John?”

Now it was John’s turn to blink blankly out of his reverie. “Sorry. You were saying?”

Sherlock quickly looked away to feign distraction as well, tapping at his keyboard with one hand and texting again with the other. “Mary briefly lived in Dublin before moving to London and taking the name from Chiswick Cemetery. For god’s sake, do keep up.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and rubbed his toes affectionately against John’s. “And I say that out of lo—“ He cut himself off and cleared his throat, his eyes bouncing between his computer screen and his mobile once more. _  
_

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock jabbed a series of buttons as he rallied off instructions to John. “I need you to book the tickets to Sussex Downs in person. The 11 o’clock train. I’d come along but I need to go to Security Services and harass some people into doing their jobs for once.”

John felt his brow crinkle. “Wait… I thought she lived in Dublin?”

“She did. So did the niece of someone we’re very interested in at the moment.”

“But we’re going to Sussex—”

“Precisely.”

It took a moment for him to realise.

Sherlock closely watched John’s face. His eyes flashed in the way they did when John was able to catch up and keep up, and then quickly shifted into a convoluted expression, one of characteristic perception mixed with uncharacteristic hesitancy. He took another sip of tea and traced his big toe against the arch of John’s foot, eyebrows raising slightly as he asked,“Will this be difficult for you?" _  
_

“No,” John cleared his throat. He regretted it as soon as he’d said it.

“You’re absolutely sure? Because—”

“Look, Sherlock. This whole thing is already fucked, alright? I want to do this.” He stood to grab his jacket. “I want it to be over.”

Sherlock reached out a hand to him, tucking his fingers into the right front pocket of John’s jeans as he twisted in his chair to face him straight on. John tugged his jacket on over his shoulders as he stood in the space made for him between Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock sent him off with a promise pressed warm and wet against John’s lips.

_________________________________________________________

 

He was going to get the train tickets. He was. He just had to stop off somewhere first.

“Here he is,” Molly groaned as she rolled the metal gurney, heavy with the weight of black body bag, over to where John was standing beneath a particularly glaring florescent light. The chemical smell of the morgue was less disconcerting than it was simply familiar at this point. A series of molecules, an olfactory memory. The last time he was here was to pick up an inconspicuous envelope.

The time before that…

“Do you want me to, um.”

“Please.”

She pinched the zipper between her fingers and slowly pulled. Tufts of once-gelled jet black hair poked out from the top of the bag as the thin metallic sound echoed lamely off of the steel wall.

They shared a few seconds of silence while John stared at the dead man’s face. His serpentine features were relaxed and blank, so opposite the dangerous and hateful glee that used to animate them. Coal black eyes had closed forever. John shoved down the visceral response he had to the dead man and flicked his eyes to the smooth stretch of forehead. The skin there was pallid, dull, unmarked. Pristine.

He swallowed. “Thanks, Molly. That’s all I needed.”

She looked only slightly more uncomfortable than usual as she quickly zipped the bag back up. “And would you like to see,” she tucked the identification tab back into the clear plastic pocket on the end of the gurney and carefully avoided his eyes, “um. What about Mary.”

John waited for her name to hurt him, but it wasn’t her name, after all.

“Sorry, John. It’s just that…I need to pass along instructions for what to do with her… remains.”

“Right. Yeah. I’ve decided.”

_________________________________________________________

John walked through the snow to buy two train tickets and thought about the nature of truth and lies.

 _Trust issues,_ _it says here_

Inevitably, now there were more lies and more opportunities to be damaged by them.

The foundations of the things John believed and the impressions of things John feared were based on deceptions, the difference between the two uncomfortably blurred.

Over the years, many people had bypassed the truth in favour of keeping John in the dark. He wondered if it was something about him, just as simple as being the wrong kind of person. His parents had lied to him. Harry had lied to him. James Sholto had lied to him. Mycroft had lied to him. Mary had lied to him. Sherlock had lied to him.

But, in some ways the worst of all, he had lied to himself.

Well, sort of lied. Mostly just tried to ignore.

For years John had tried to ignore who he was and what he wanted when it came to the very heart of him, the parts and pieces that he hid from everyone but found himself wanting to give to Sherlock. He was supposed to be John Watson, M.D., Army veteran, married with a wife and children and maybe a dog or something. Respectable, ordinary, predictable John Watson.

He wasn’t that John Watson. He just wasn’t.

He wasn’t gay. He had realised that he was attracted to both men and women years ago. He had married a woman. He was in love with a man who wasn’t ordinary.

John Watson wasn’t ordinary either. _  
_

Now was the time to renegotiate the terms he had made with himself. It was always easier to say things by not saying things, to let the moments pass and slip through time like grains of sand through spread fingers. Sherlock thought him brave, had called him so in front of a lot of people, even.

Sex is easy. Love is hard.

And now, he thought, he ought to be brave.

“Two tickets for the 11 o’clock,” John said to the clerk through the filmy glass window. He glanced at his watch.

He had one other place to stop off.

________________________________________________________

The gravestone was smaller than he had expected, even buried under a few inches of snow. The whole thing felt rather surreal as he steadfastly gazed at the twenty letters neatly carved into the dove grey granite.

_Mary Elizabeth Morstan_

A stillborn baby and a baby who had never existed were both brought into John’s life by a woman whose identity was etched on the grave stuck sideways into the ground before him, her eventual fate sealed in stone before she had even died by that name.

“Why _here_ , exactly. Why this name…” John murmured as studied the grave. He wondered about the Morstans, if they still came to visit their daughter. He wondered what they would think about all of this if they knew.

The cemetery was nearly deserted, save for a few black-clad mourners gathered around a fresh burial site on the other side of a low iron-wrought fence. After several minutes John leaned down and brushed frozen clumps of snow off some weathered plastic daisies bunched at the bottom of the gravestone before standing to shove his hands back into his pockets. He sighed.

“Look, I know you’re there.”

Sherlock quickly appeared at John’s side, his shoulders hunched up against the chill of the dull winter day. He seemed to be waiting for a signal from John, a cue that this intrusion was welcome, and was practically vibrating with the effort of standing still. He had news, clearly.

John turned to look at him squarely in the eyes. “He wasn’t shot in the head.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know?”

“I went to Barts, obviously, which you knew before you asked me that.” John folded his arms across his chest, his voice calm and measured. “When did you know, Sherlock.”

A brow crinkle and confusion. “What?”

“When did you figure it out.”

“I didn’t. I’m not lying. I would have told you, I promise.”

“You promise?” John nearly shouted. He felt his jaw clench, then remembered he was in a cemetery and there were freshly bereaved mourners nearby. He lowered his voice and said through his teeth, “This whole thing was supposed to be pinned on me, remember? I was the one who killed him, unsighted to top it off, and with you…bloody…dying on top of me? And now, of course, it’s a fucking cover-up and who the hell knows what really happened and now your brother’s in jail and Mary’s dead and you’re still lying and making promises you can’t keep.” John felt his blood pressure rising as tried to force his fingers back out of the fists they automatically formed. Sherlock looked as though he had been slapped in the face. “Dammit. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He rubbed his face with his hands as he blew out a long breath. “I know you’re not lying… I’m sorry. I don’t know. I’m an arsehole.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not alright. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know if I’m okay or not okay or if I’m supposed to be over all this already or not and I _don’t know how to do_ _this_ , alright?” John huffed exasperatedly. “But I don’t want to be a dickhead.”

“Thought I was the dickhead,” Sherlock deadpanned.

John burst into a laugh that he couldn’t contain even if he could have tried. They laughed together until John was crying. He didn’t know what from, exactly. It didn’t matter.

“Emotions can be incredibly illuminating,” Sherlock whispered as he held John’s gaze. “Sometimes they’re worth experiencing and letting go.”

“You got that from a book.” John wiped his cheek on his sleeve.

“Would’ve done, before you.” A quirk of lips, a little smile that found its way up to his eyes.

“So where’d this sociopath thing come from, then?”

Sherlock’s smile faded. He paused for a moment. “It was easier.”

 

 _I am so in love with you. Always was, always will be_.

 

The winter sky deepened into a slate grey-blue and the wind picked up, swirling low-lying and icy drifts of snow against their bodies, forcing them to burrow closer into their coats. John glanced at his watch. 

“Shit. We’ve got a train to catch.”

“Right.”

The bubble had burst. Back to business.

“So the question becomes—”

“—why were the photos doctored—”

“—but if the body wasn’t—”

“—which would mean that not only did he—”

“—right, but if we considered the actual reasoning—”

“—then that’s the key—”

“—exactly.”

“Hm.” Sherlock affirmed and stepped closer, his body brushing up to John’s. Both of them leaned gently into each other.

“I’m going to have her buried here. Well, not _here_ , obviously, but. You know.” John swallowed. “Where it all started.”

They turned and stood side by side in silence for a few minutes until John held his hand out to Sherlock, who grasped it tightly, pressing warm skin to warm skin.

“I held her hand beside your grave, you know. And now I’m holding your hand beside hers. Sort of.” He let out another shaky breath he hadn’t realised was trapped in his chest. “How fucked up is that.”

“It’s all fucked up. And all we can do is try to unfuck it,” Sherlock lamented. “And maybe fuck each other in the meantime.”

Sherlock raised John’s fingers to his lips and pressed such a serious and tender kiss to the back of his hand that John thought he might burst into an alarming combination of tears and laughter again.

“Well done making me laugh _here_ , you git,” he complained with a wink. Sherlock looked as though he’d saved that one, stored it away tucked deep inside himself.

_I think Sherlock has secret places too_

 

They caught the train with five minutes to spare.

Little Mary Morstan laid peacefully, John hoped, in her grave under the snow.

 

_________________________________________________________

 

England blurred through the frosty window panes as they sat beside each other on the gently rocking train, roasting under the rattling heating vents and sipping from paper cups of weak, tinny coffee. John had bought them egg sandwiches at the station but neither of them could be arsed to eat much. Instead, they took turns staring out of the window, with the spaces in-between filled with Sherlock rapid-fire texting and John wrestling with his thoughts. Finally Sherlock pulled the envelope out of his pocket and slid it neatly into John’s open hand. It was warm, having been nestled for so long in-between the Belstaff and his body.

“It’s time.”

“I’ll be ready when I’m ready.” John stared down the unassuming white paper. The information inside would tear his world apart, again.

“I’m sorry, really, John. But we have to do this now. Before we get to—”

“Yes, alright. Yes.” He held the air in his lungs for a moment before exhaling and sliding a finger under the flap, then paused, eyes widening. “Hang on. You know her name, don’t you? The memory stick. It must’ve been on there.”

“You saw what I did, John. Her real identity was never included in any of the reports.”

“How do we know? Maybe one of those _was_ her real identity?”

“John.” Sherlock’s eyes were focussed and penetrated right through John’s weak defenses. “Open it.”

“You know her name, don’t you.”

“For god’s sake John, I’m not keeping you in the dark.” Sherlock squinted at him closely. “Wait. What is this really about,” he asked in the terrifyingly curious tone that John heavily associated with anxiety and the unavoidable perusal of his most private thoughts.

“Oh don’t. Don’t try to deduce me. Not now.”

“I’m not.”

“Sherlock.”

“Please.” Sherlock shifted in his seat to lightly rest his hand over John’s, which was still clasped around the envelope. His eyes were earnest. “I won't deduce it. Tell me.”

 

_Damn it_

_C’mon John_

_Try_

He swallowed. “The day before I met you.” His voice felt throaty and tight. “Do you know what I was thinking about doing?”

“Yes.” Sherlock was quiet. “I know.”

“And then you came into my life. And just like that, I couldn’t.”

Sherlock said nothing but nodded slightly, the curves of his mouth dipping down at the corners.

“Sherlock, what we had… before.” It was too much. The words got lost on the way. He reached for his coffee cup with his other hand, took a long, unsatisfying drink, and tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock could see right through him.

_I find it difficult, this sort of stuff_

_This stuff is worth it_

_He’s worth it_

John rolled his shoulders back, easing the tension out of them, the words rushing out of him now. “Nothing would have stopped me from finding you, Sherlock. Nothing. If I had known.”

Sherlock nodded again, skillfully hiding a modicum of confusion that swept through his features.

“And now, with her….Someone who I thought I _loved_ didn’t trust me with her secrets. Not even her name.”

Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the back of John’s middle finger. A woman pushed by their seats, fighting with her bags as she walked down the aisle to the back of the train car.

John sighed. “I think it’s me. Something about me, that people don’t.” He shifted in his seat and looked away as he fiddled with the envelope, eventually laid it on the little plastic table in front of them. Sherlock wasn’t pushing him or rolling his eyes or urging him to hurry up, for once. He was just… listening.

_Keep going_

_You need to hear yourself finally say this_

John met Sherlock’s eyes. “With you, I thought I wasn’t enough. For the longest time, I thought about how I must not have given you a reason to trust me. A reason not to jump. To stay, I mean. With me.”

Sherlock’s eyes reflected the soft winter light filtered through the frosty window opposite, possessing John and strengthening him and never before looking quite so blue.

“No, John. You gave me a reason to leave.”

John felt his heartbeat in the back of his throat.

Sherlock moved almost imperceptibly closer. “The reason was that I needed—you were the reason—look, John.” He seemed suddenly a bit flustered. “There’s something I need to tell you. I should have said this a long time ago—”

“Sorry to interrupt. Is that other seat taken? Can’t seem to find one in the back.” The woman who’d passed by a few moments ago was half leaning over Sherlock’s seat, helpfully angling her ample cleavage into his sightline.

“Yes—” Sherlock started.

“No, it’s fine.” John glanced around. There truly wasn’t a spare seat visible anywhere else. He mentally kicked himself for consenting to social niceties when it was actually the last thing he could give a fuck about at the moment.

“Thanks, love.” She brushed past them and settled gracefully into her seat. “Packed in like sardines, aren’t we. What’re you boys up to today?” she asked with a coy smile at Sherlock.

“Um,” John tried to think of a suitable story.

“Just visiting an old friend.” Sherlock said forcefully as he grabbed John’s hand tightly in his own. “ _Our_ friend. And after that we might have another round of some very satisfying and emotionally fulfilling sex. Sex that we do with each other.”

John felt his ears colour.

“Yes, well.” The woman looked somehow less embarrassed as she managed a pinched smile. “I’ll leave you to it. I need the loo.” She stood to push past their legs and sauntered back down the aisle, hips swaying and catching the attention of everyone she passed.

John’s eyes fell to the table. Panic immediately rose in the back of his throat.

“Christ, Sherlock. The envelope. It’s gone.”

“It’s not.” Sherlock kept his voice low. “She’s an operative for Moran who’d been watching us since we got on the train,” he poked two fingers into the top inside pocket of the Belstaff and pulled out an identical envelope to hand to John, “and just walked away with her trophy: a detailed, numerically ordered list of all the things I find objectionable about Mycroft. Categorised and alphabetised.” Sherlock smiled softly and nodded at him once more. “Go on.”

John opened the envelope.

 

_________________________________________________________

 

“Right. Number 27.” John checked the address again. “Yeah, this is it.”

He reached out a hand for the brass knocker bolted to the center of the light green wooden door. It was nearly identical to all the others on the narrow street lined with whitewashed houses and multicoloured ceramic flowerpots and forgotten children’s toys strewn about the gardens. The muted winter sun briefly peaked out from behind the heavy grey clouds, illuminating a snapshot of the life John couldn’t imagine anymore. He had his life now, and he was standing slightly behind him.

The door eased open after three short and sharp knocks. A woman with long dark hair appeared in the entrance to the homey cottage, the fireplace brightly roaring inside behind her. Her eyes widened as her mouth dropped open.

“Hello again, Janine. Sorry we couldn’t ring ahead.”


	11. the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to be your starlight in the darkest hour.  
> I want to feed you love and give you all my fire.
> 
> Want you to hold me like you'll drop me and I'll shatter.  
> Want you to touch me like you're drowning in my water.
> 
> I wanna meet you at the bottom of the ocean.  
> I wanna live my life beside you in slow motion.
> 
>  
> 
> Heart-Shaped Birthmark ~ Tei Shi
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
> [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/lLCImUwwfQk?t=1m58s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Part of) this chapter covers a criminal trial at the Old Bailey. I've never attended a criminal trial at the Old Bailey, but I've done a bit of research to try to make it fairly believable. I have changed some things; normally, witnesses wouldn't be able to hear each others' testimony, etc. I've got no legal training, so if you have and you've noticed it's all wrong: please accept my apologies (and also let me know what I've missed, if you like.)

“You can’t ignore the constraints of the hypothetical, John.”

“Fucking hell, Sherlock. It’s _not_ a hypothetical. It’s ridiculous.”

They were walking briskly along the icy pavement under a darkening Sussex sky tattooed with stars—no, _Sherlock_ was walking briskly along the icy pavement under a darkening Sussex sky tattooed with stars and John was rage-walking after him, crisscrossing curving streets in a hurry to get back to the station after their meeting with Janine. She’d welcomed them in, put on the kettle, and was polite enough to let Sherlock make explanations about their bruised appearances before asking. She’d been surprised to hear of the events at the pool, surprised when John showed her some of the contents of the envelope, surprised in the same way one is surprised when you find out that you must undergo that painfully invasive operation after all. Sherlock hadn’t seen Janine since he was in hospital with a hole in his chest and she had tried to tear one into his pride. Luckily, they were friends now. Maybe.

 _Surprise_ is a complicated word. As is _friend_.

“John, don’t be daft.”

A small hand came out of nowhere and fiercely gripped Sherlock at the elbow, which inevitably forced him to slide slightly on the ice and twist his torso awkwardly to keep from falling. John’s jacket was pulled close around his shoulders, his collar turned up to his ears bright red in the cold as he shoved his way into Sherlock’s personal space and squeezed his fist around his arm. Before Sherlock’s eyes he was transforming into _Captain-Doctor-Watson-is-so-done-with-your-shit_ , and there was nothing to stop him. Sherlock briefly wondered if John knew of his weakness for this particular iteration and exploited it.

“Sherlock. Shut up. _No_.” Eyes like steel.

“I think it could work. Hypothetically.” The possibilities were… _maybe_ there. 

“I can’t believe you told her that.”

“She shouldn’t know the alternative. She’s going to be a witness.”

“Do you realise how dangerous this is, setting up something like this? We don’t have any proof!”

“Well—”

“Sherlock, you are not going to _blackmail_ —” They were stopped at a busy intersection and the sudden passing of a woman pushing a bundled up pram stifled John’s outburst, forcing him into a whisper, teeth and tongue biting out the words in the frigid air, “—you’re not going to blackmail the judge – the _Lord Chief Justice_ , for that matter – at your brother’s trial because you have a hunch that _maybe_ he made some financial donations to someone with connections to an international crime syndicate that _maybe_ was related to someone that _maybe_ Mary—” He suddenly stopped himself cold, blinking.

Sherlock waited.

“Say her name, John.”

John licked his lips, impatient, and drove his top teeth over the bottom one. Sherlock watched John’s jaw work as he sucked in a sharp sniff through one nostril and shifted his weight onto his other (good) leg.

“Why.”

“Why don’t you want to.”

John’s response came tumbling out over Sherlock’s words.

“Because that’s who she is.”

“Because then it’s real.”

John pinched his mouth closed into a thin line, then looked down at his feet and studiously at Sherlock’s left shoulder before staring at the hidden scar just off center on Sherlock’s chest near his heart. He was motionless, his expression convoluted. A family pushed by with hands full of carrier bags. A man and a dog on a lead slid slowly on the ice. The traffic lights changed rotations twice, their colours framing John’s struggle in shades of red and yellow. If he said anything, Sherlock knew, if he broke John out of this moment, the opportunity would be lost. So he was quiet, and he waited.

_It wasn’t just surgery, we all knew it_

_Mary Morstan didn’t do this to any of us_

_She’s buried in the snow_

John huffed a resolved sigh into the wintery air. Determination made visible.

“Anna.”

“Anna.”

“That… Anna might have had a connection to.”

“Right.” Silence. No echo in the crystalline evening. Everything was muffled by people passing and the dull throb of pain that wouldn’t.

“No blackmail.”

“It’s an option.”

John was tense. “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” he hissed. His feet shifted again beneath him, fists clenched. “I watched you _die_.” He swallowed, something bitter and heavy in his throat. “And for two years… And now.” He stopped himself. “Now you want to do something. Completely.” He turned his head to the side, eyes skyward. “I can’t have you shipped off to god knows where again, you bastard. That's as good as dying--you can't--”

A weird flutter in the space between Sherlock’s lungs. Something bloomed in his chest.

He’s trying, and can’t it ever be enough to try? But no, he must always _do_.

_Fuck it_

“John.” _  
_

_“_ This is _real_ , Sherlock. This is real life,” John met his gaze again. “This isn’t some fairytale and somehow everything gets fixed and then it’s fine. This is complicated.”

“But blackmail can work. Not always, granted, case in point—”

And there it was.

“ _Jesus christ_ you’re not Mary alright?! Not Mary—fucking— _Anna_ —you don’t do this to people—you’re not—just—”

“Out of the way boys, yeah? Only so much room for us all on the pavement.” A stocky man in a puffer jacket pushed through them with a glare.

“We’re going to miss our train,” John spat. He turned on his heel and was gone.

As he had always done, Sherlock followed him.

________________________________________________________________

_Low._

_Dark, dull, electric._

_Buzzing._

_A wet cough. Withered. Something in his pocket, tucked hidden. Secrets._

_Papers rustling. The creeping, mouldy stench of undiscovered damp. The Old Bailey, packed to bursting, crowds of identical bloated faces and blank staring eyes. Wood bench behind his back, muscles stiff with tension and fatigue and yes, there was John, John, John was there, his John, John looking tired._

_He couldn’t quite… see._

_“Is there a verdict to which you all agree?”_

_Silence. No, not silence. The opposite of silence. Silky, slick, sour sound._

_“We have.”_

_“Very well. Please read the pronouncement.”_

_“In the case of the Crown versus Mycroft Holmes, we have unanimously found the defendant guilty.”_

_“No.” A breath, a river flooding out of him._

_“Mycroft Holmes, you have been accused of egregious crimes against Her Majesty the Queen and the British Realm. Your claims of innocence are ruled unfounded. The court has found you guilty of criminal conspiracy, fraud, and treason, insomuch as ultimately you have adhered to the sovereign’s enemies and given them aid and comfort in the realm or elsewhere. Sentencing is duly and resolutely pronounced at this time and shall be life imprisonment, to be imposed immediately. Take him down.”_

_A hammer to the side of his skull, his ribs. Shaking hands._

_“Mycroft.”_

_“Sherlock, what have you done.”_

_“Sherlock!”_

_“No. He’s, he’s—“ Sherlock sputtered, gasping. The scene blurred, sliding into shapes like oil diluted with heat and scent and layers of memory. Sideways, tilting, he couldn’t quite, couldn’t…_

“Sherlock?”

John. Baker Street. John was stood above Sherlock, creases worried into the lines of his forehead and around his eyes, the edges of his mouth pulled tight. A few fingers tucked under a sweaty curl and pushed it back into the mess of Sherlock’s hair as John dropped down onto the sofa beside him. Sherlock forced a deep breath in through his (healing) broken nose, his chest expanding painfully. A dream. Only a dream. Just a dream. The trial was set to begin in a few weeks. His brother’s trial.

Mycroft would be found guilty. Mycroft would be sent to prison for the rest of his natural life, and Sherlock would watch this happen. Sherlock. Helpless and slow and stupid.

He had always been a stupid, stupid man. _  
_

“You okay?”

“Fine.” His lungs felt tight and hot as he blew out, ruffling his fringe half-stuck to his skin. “I’m fine.”

John carefully rested his hand on the center of Sherlock’s chest, heartbeat fluttering beneath his fingers as a pulse was decidedly and clandestinely taken. He paused to let another chorus of breathing pass between them, reading something Sherlock’s face. A flash of concern sparked around his mouth and pulled at the corners of his eyes. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Pretend. We’re past pretending.”

A funny _pit-pat_ in Sherlock’s chest.He felt his throat moving as he tried to swallow and felt John’s familiar weight re-adjust beside him on the sofa. The light in the flat was low and comforting, just one of the lamps on, the air chilly as ever but John was here, thigh pressed into Sherlock’s side, and Sherlock felt his pulse slow.

“It was about the trial. Mycroft guilty, of course, and I was just...sat there. ” He forced out another long breath. “Everything went wrong.” He rolled his head to face the back of the sofa, then back again to find John’s face. “Didn’t even realise.”

“Hey.” John kept his voice subdued. “It’s alright.”

They shared an awkward moment. John frowned, eyebrows knitted together, pulling down from his hairline.

“Look, about before. I’m sorry.”

“Me too, John.”

“I shouldn’t have said that. You’re not.” _  
_

“It’s alright.”

“I.” John cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to talk about everything. Very well. I just… go off.”

“Really. It’s fine.”

“Sorry I didn’t talk to you on the train.”

“John.”

“Easier not to say things sometimes, you know.”

“I know.”

_Do I ever_

“But that doesn’t make it right.”

Sherlock’s pulse was nearly to normal, John’s hand an anchor.

“We’re trying.”

“Mm.” John smiled.

This moment was not so awkward. It seemed like the start of something, and that was rather nice.

Sherlock tried to suppress a yawn, which made him yawn.

“What time is it?”

  
“Gone 02:00, I think.”

Sherlock groaned. “What a waste of time.”

“You’re exhausted. I went in for a shower and you were here going through the memory stick.” _  
_

“No excuse.” He tried to push into sitting up, but John’s hand was still calming weight on his chest keeping him in place, nestled in the cushions. He felt heavy, thick, made of lead. “You’re exhausted too and you didn’t give in.”

“Give in? Sherlock.” John swept two fingers and thumb from his other hand over his own eyebrows as his mouth opened in a tiny 'o' before a lovely smirk. “You need sleep just like everyone else. You’re human, you know.” _  
_

“Unfortunately.” _  
_

“It’s my favourite part of you.” John looked down almost shyly as he rubbed small circles against Sherlock’s shirt.

“What is, the fact that I’m regrettably human or my regrettably bruised chest?”

“Both.” John’s smile was affectionate as he splayed his fingers across sore pectoral muscles that protected a slowing heartbeat. “But somehow the chest has gained in the running recently.”

“Oh really?”

“Shocked me too, given that it’s always ranked pretty high,” John said against Sherlock’s mouth. The kiss was sweet, not tentative. A comfort. Familiar.

_I love this man_

“Now up you get. We both need to eat something before I keel over on the floor next to you.” Sherlock’s stomach protested as John eased himself to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen, punching the switch for the overhead as he went. Distinguishing scents of long-forgotten experiments wafted over to the sofa as John prodded through the drawers in the fridge. “ _Christ knows what that used to be_ ,” he murmured to himself as he pulled open the freezer door. “Uhhm, I could make that thing with the peas?” he called as he twisted over his left shoulder to check Sherlock’s reaction.

Sherlock was lost in a haze, eyes trained on the residual patterns of chemical burns on the ceiling left over from an old experiment gone horribly wrong. That was in the time Before. He was uninjured then, and he was injured now, but somehow he felt like that should be switched.

_Tell him_

_Tell him you still love him_

_That you have always_

_Tell him that the confessions at the pool were meant to last_

_Maybe he forgot about it_

_Tell him that it wasn’t a temporary reaction to the fear of dying_

_Tell him that you meant it_

_That you love him_

_Officially_

_Resolutely_

_Tell him that you’ve been afraid_

_Maybe he has too_

_Maybe he—_

“Sherlock? Peas, then?”

His eyes found their way back to John. The Before was over and this was Now. “It’s too easy to cast fear as indifference,” he murmured to himself.

“Hm?”

Sherlock wanted to kiss (tender and unhurried and deliberate) the puzzlement on John’s brow. “Peas are good. I just… need a moment.” He sat up slowly, his shoulder protesting as he turned his head to look out the window. A shade just lighter than midnight blue coloured the sky behind the dusty clouds that paraded in rows over the golden glow of Baker Street. The street was sublimely quiet. The flat was quiet too, save for John’s maneouvering in the kitchen, the distant hum of the long suffering fridge, and the tinny buzz of something… probably a piece of surveillance equipment that had been forgotten by some of Mycroft’s minions. A surreptitious clean-up had occurred a few days after all of It and Sherlock was too tired to investigate their ineptitude at the moment.

Sherlock looked back and drank in the sight of John spotlighted under the overheads in the kitchen, his head bent at an angle over the package of frozen peas on the worktop, fingers absentmindedly but carefully trailing over his woolen-clad right shoulder to press softly here and there, feeling for boundaries on his healing wound. John frowned as he bent to search for a decently sterile stock pot, the waistband of his jeans riding down and the hem of his jumper pulling up to reveal a sliver of sweet, soft skin.

His hair was looking more silver than blond these days.

Sherlock crossed the room in an instant and dove his hand into the pocket of his Belstaff. He tucked his fingers around the little items lodged there and pinched one in particular between his finger and thumb.

John unceremoniously tore open the package of peas and dumped the frozen clot into the apparently sufficiently clean pot. He turned the taps on and off to fill the pot with water and tried to click on the gas with no success. His palms pressed flat against the worktop, he stretched to look behind it to check the connection. “Sherlock, when was the last time we paid the gas?” he groaned with an extended stretch, craning his neck to peek behind the stove. “I think the bloody thing’s shut off.”

_We_

Sherlock came up close, just behind John, a little to the side, and slid the paper back and forth in-between his own fingers, a hesitation. His heart fluttered in his chest.

A hint of worry tipped over the shadows of John’s face, as he turned at an angle, still not quite facing Sherlock as he adjusted his view of the dusty hook-up. “And, uh. We need to talk about—“

“—her.”

“Right. And the autopsy. Moriarty. No bullet in the forehead like in the photos.”

“No.”

John raised his eyebrows as he turned and met Sherlock’s gaze full-on. “As in no, we’re not talking about it or no—“

“—no, as in we are going to talk about it and no, you’re right, there was no bullet wound, there was never any bullet wound, and also I'm sorry that I always interrupt you.”

John looked momentarily surprised. “Uh, s’fine.” A quirk of a smile. “I don’t mind.”

“You probably should.”

“I don’t.” John leaned his hip back against the worktop and crossed his arms over his chest, hands curled over his biceps, a fond grin growing over the lines of his eyes and mouth.

Sherlock heard a little clump of peas break away and fall to the bottom of the pot.

“I love you.”

He slipped the piece of paper underneath John’s pinky.

It was crinkled, but it would do. _  
_

John looked back at Sherlock, then down at his hand.

He pulled out the paper and read it.

Sherlock had barely ever allowed himself to even imagine this moment.

And yet.

Saying this to John proved to be as easy and involuntary as breathing.

Here was Sherlock, slept in his clothes and probably looked and smelled a mess and John’s eyes were tired and it was obvious both shoulders were aching ( _now was not the best time, now was never the best time)_ but he couldn’t stop. He was stood facing John in their flat in Baker Street next to melting frozen peas, and John had been nearly lost to him, and now he was here.

A symphony of emotions played over John’s face.

Sherlock felt his heartbeat in his throat, and kept going.

“John, you pour the hot water into my mug before yours.”

“What?”

Sherlock grabbed both of John’s hands in his. He wasn’t quite sure what was happening and he wasn’t quite sure what was going to come out of his mouth. He was sure, however, that was the Most Right thing he had ever done.

“You try to be good, even if it makes you unhappy. People lied to you, and used you, and you tried to trust them. Love was not offered to you unconditionally and I want to offer you the opposite of that.” He squeezed John’s hands.

“Sherlock.” Soft, barely a whisper. John’s voice held multitudes.

“For two years the only thing that kept me alive was the thought of you.” He found himself blinking, his eyes growing watery. “I know I’m a selfish prick for doing this now, but the thing of it is that I’ve loved you as long as I’ve known you, John. I’ll love you until I’m dead.” He swallowed. “I want you in whatever way you’ll have me, if you’ll have me.”

He held his breath and studied John’s eyes. _  
_

_oh god_

_he hasn’t said anything_

John’s face shone like the sun.

A crinkled little slip of paper championing _Fortune favours the brave_ rested abandoned on the worktop as John let go of Sherlock’s hands and wrapped his arms around his waist.

“Look, Sherlock.” Sherlock could feel little tremours throughout the muscles in John’s arms and sides, his body betraying him, but his voice was steady. “I have a daughter that never was born because she never existed, Mary—I mean, Anna, and Moriarty are both dead because of me, and your brother is about to stand trial for orchestrating all of it. We’ve started fucking—literally fucking—after being apart for a year.” He adjusted his grasp of Sherlock’s waist and locked their bodies together, slotting thighs into familiar, warm places. Only a tell-tale break on his inhale exposed his faltering resolve. “And you could fucking multiply all of that and nothing would make me leave, or doubt you, or want you less.” Slowly, eyes soft, he leaned up to press a gentle kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, nearing the tip of the bruise under his nose. “I’ve been in love with you for years,” he whispered against pink parted lips. “I always was. Always will be. Of course I want you.”

The peas melted, forgotten.

Sherlock held John’s words in his chest.

Lips and tongues sliding, breath hot, they kissed each other raw in the kitchen. Sherlock pressed John back into the worktop, one hand wrapped around the back of John’s head, fingers of the other spread wide ( _careful_ ) between John’s shoulder blades, stuttering, rocking hips pushing their growing erections together until Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore and shoved his hand into his pants, waistband still buttoned, John helping with his own for a few moments until Sherlock nearly tore the zip from John’s trousers. Both unbuttoned and unzipped, breathing heavy into open mouths, Sherlock twinned their cocks in the palm of his hand, pulling them off together fast and hard, mounting urgency underlining their motions. John’s hands wandered over Sherlock’s back down to his arse and clutched the smooth muscle there as he arched his back and slid a knee back between Sherlock’s parted legs. Sherlock sucked into the pulsepoint on John’s neck and stroked their two shades of satiny skin, tiny drops of mingled precome dripping down slowly onto the curve of his fist.

John rolled his hips up, pumping his cock into Sherlock’s palm as his eyes slid closed. Sherlock breathed into John’s hair.

“Will it ever not be like this?”

“Nope.”

Mouths found their homes again, lips red and rough, John careful of Sherlock’s nose, Sherlock careful not to push John too roughly into the edge of the worktop. The fridge hummed a dull soundtrack; otherwise the kitchen was quiet save for their love.

“ _Fuck_ I’m helpless for you,” came stuttered out between the lovely wet sounds of mouths wandering over jawlines and the faint, fricative rasp of clothing.

“Mmmissed you. God, I missed you.”

“John.” Suddenly Sherlock pulled back a few millimetres with a small noise. “It wasn’t—” kiss “—my intention—” kiss “—to get in your pants, just so we’re clear.”

“I always want you in my pants.” John traced the curve of Sherlock’s bottom lip with the tip of his finger, then his tongue.

“I thought that was implied.”

“It’s a bit of an understatement, actually.”

“I see.”

“Sometimes we need to say things.”

The rhythm of their bodies moving together, the combined short inhales and long, low exhales, the wet round places where mouths met skin and fabric, it wasn’t enough and it wasn’t enough and it wasn’t enough and it would never be _enough_.

John’s turn to pull back, eyes triumphant, mischievous. A moment’s pause, which translated into long moment of denial for Sherlock. “I never said it proper.” _  
_

Frowning and love-drunk, Sherlock squinted at him.“What. John. Just kiss me. What you are doing.”

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Kiss. “Very good.” Kiss.

“I just said I love you.”

“That’s good.” Kiss. “It’s mutual.” Kiss.

Sherlock realised that perhaps John was the best kisser and the best lover and the best man and the best Best.

Later, on the floor in the kitchen, and in the shower, and in the bed, as they pressed their lips and their bodies together again and again and again, Sherlock realised something else about John.

_He is necessary to me._

________________________________________________________________

“Did you love a man before me?”

John’s voice, still rough from sleep but soft, little more than a whisper, cupped the words tenderly in the early morning darkness a few hours later. They were stretched out on the bed, pillows bunched around them, the duvet shared between two broken nude bodies that had started to heal.

Sherlock was already awake.

“No.” He rolled from his back onto his good side facing John, who was watching him intently, eyes twin embers, with an arm tucked under his head. “No, I never did.”

“Hm.”

Sherlock knew he shouldn’t ask.

“Did you?”

John’s chest expanded, pulling the duvet away from his shoulder to reveal the bandages he’d hastily stuck on after their shower. His eyelashes fluttered, once, twice.

“I dunno. For a long time I thought maybe.”

Sherlock didn’t ask who. They both knew.

A few minutes lapsed in silence. Fingers slipped over creamy white skin stretched around hipbone and traced purple-blue lines of veins. A languidness settled over their bed but things unsaid still hung heavy between them. John watched his fingers thread over ribbons of blue in the soft, delicate skin on inside of Sherlock’s elbow.

“When did you start using?”

“When I was twenty, at uni.”

“Mm.”

“For a while it was just enough—” Sherlock groaned as he shifted his weight to re-adjust his shoulder and let his head fall back onto the pillow, “—and then it wasn’t.” John waited, quiet. “I lied to myself as long as I could.”

“When I met you—”

“I was clean. Even when I was—away, never… until after the wedding.” John’s fingers twitched on his hip. “I thought I could be happy for you. Thought I could manage it.” Sherlock’s voice fell down to a whisper. “I tried.”

John wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck to pull him into a kiss, lips pressed tight.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry I married her.”

“John.”

“My whole life… all I wanted was my own fucking life, you know? But once I got it I fucked it all up.”

“No, you didn’t. You didn’t. You did the best you could.”

John let the air escape from his lungs in one go.

“There was my life. And then there was you.”

“I could say the same.”

John’s mouth tasted like salt. Wet, warm cheeks. 

Outside, it started to rain.

They kissed for a while, both ignoring the tiny tears that escaped from the laugh lines around John’s eyes. Sherlock knew that, for as much as he tried, sometimes emotion could not be adequately contained: the sting of a punch, the prick of a needle, these were things they had turned to when they were each alone.

But now… they weren’t.

The mood seemed lighter, somehow.

Sherlock placed a round, tender kiss on John’s mouth, then tucked his head into the crook of John’s neck and nosed over the warm skin of his pulse. “I like the comfort of you.”

“Oh you do?”

“I like a lot of things, John.”

“About me?”

“Yes.”

John trailed a finger over the soft skin behind Sherlock’s ear. “Do you like me like you like a double murder? Or sneaking cigarettes? Or telling off Anderson?”

“More.”

John snorted. “Like how you like company when you go out?”

“I wasn’t lying about that.”

John’s low, slow laugh was wet and raspy in his chest. “Yeah, but at the time—”

“Shut up, John.” 

“You were _flirting_ with me.”

“Oh my god.”

“You were! And I was an idiot.”

“We’re both idiots.”

“True.”

The duvet shivered with their laughter. Sherlock tucked it closer around them.

“I didn’t realise I wanted this until I needed it.”

“What." 

“This. You.”

 

_________________________________________________________________

 

Morning came in a burst of rainshowers that cut through the crusts of snow on the pavement and melted ice into lacey patterns against the windows. It was getting warmer, after all. Baker Street wasn’t so quiet now, with Londoners cheering up a bit with the change from snow to rain and hustling about their duties with the regular sense of inevitability rather than bitter despair. The flat buzzed to life with scrunchy rustles of movement under the bedclothes and then mobiles beeping and the kettle bubbling and the occasional wet, soft sound of mouths meeting.

They settled in.

The remaining weeks before the start of the trial passed quickly. Mrs. Hudson returned from her sister’s to quite a change of scenery around 221 Baker Street. After they sat her down and told her the whole story one evening, she burst into tears, gave them both as big a hug as she could manage, and went promptly downstairs to bake an inordinate quantity and variety of sugary sweet nibbles that made even Sherlock’s mouth pucker after a few accommodating bites.

They found themselves in love, in a new way. Sherlock still abandoned John for the recesses of his mind palace on the regular, but when he returned he delivered kisses instead of indifference. John shouldered his twin burdens of grief and anger with his customary stoicism, but more than once he let himself leave them in Sherlock’s arms.

Their wounds healed and left scars.

Private communication with Mycroft was essentially impossible, and John saw worn, tired lines etched around Sherlock’s eyes when he returned from his sparse supervised visits. Moran had apparently requested to see them both and as much as he wanted to go and punch every last tooth out of the fucker’s head, John had adamantly refused. Sherlock had considered.

In the end, they didn’t go.

A new grave was dug in Chiswick Cemetery. It was on the other side, far from Mary Morstan, and it had a very different type of marker.

John went only once, to say some things.

That night, as Sherlock held him close, he counted his heartbeats until he fell asleep, pulled away from pain like a magnet.

 

_________________________________________________________

“Do you need anything?” A tie was tossed down the corridor in Sherlock’s general direction, which landed in a spiral on the floor in front of the kitchen table where he was sat reviewing case notes. John, suited up for the first day of the trial, was uncomfortably adjusting and readjusting his own tie knotted at his throat as he marched into the the kitchen to fill the kettle.

“Only your constant love and devotion.”

“Hold on, I’ll get it for you, hm?” John said absentmindedly as he ripped the tie off his neck and wrestled it with one hand as he fiddled with the taps with the other.

“John.” Sherlock slid his chair back and stood to place his large hand over the smaller one, setting the half-filled kettle on the worktop and pivoting John to look at him. “Are you alright?”

“Sorry?”

_I love you_

_It’s going to be fine_

“I love you. It’s going to be fine.” He could say his thoughts aloud now.

“You don’t know that.” John’s voice became a small thing, the muscle between his eyes pinched and tense.

“Boys! Your car’s here!” Mrs. Hudson called from the landing. _  
_

“A moment!” Sherlock called down to her, never taking his eyes from John’s face. “Fair enough. I don’t know if it’s going to be fine. I most definitely love you and that's better than fine. That gives fine the finger.”

They tied their ties and kissed Mrs. Hudson on her cheek before they climbed into the waiting car. The sky was a blanket over London. Impenetrable.

 

________________________________________________________________

Mycroft, three-piece-suited, looked inscrutably poised.

The public gallery was nearly filled, only a handful of extra seats remaining scattered about the upper areas. Sherlock scanned the faces for any familiarities. His parents—they were there, settled between some unfortunate family members that he would’ve been all too happy to have never seen again. His mother caught his eye. He offered a small grimace of a smile and looked over to his brother, perched like a bird in the defendant dock, then back to the security services agent testifying in the witness box. _  
_

“…and so if it pleases your Lordship, My Lord Chief Justice, that the CCTV footage displayed—”

“Refer to me as My Lord, Mr. Spaulding.”

“Yes, sir. My Lord, sir.” The man was sweating. It was despicable, and Sherlock was surprised to find he felt a modicum of sympathy lingering somewhere in his chest. In his peripheral vision, Mycroft rolled his eyes. Sherlock could read his face: _ineptitude pounds nails in coffins and sends innocent men to their deaths, or worse, prison_.

The man coughed and anxiously took a shaky drink of water before replacing the glass on the small table at his side.

“Carry on.”

“Yes, My Lord. The CCTV footage from across the street shows the entrance of the—of the flat, um, two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street, it clearly shows a series of individuals entering that night.”

The footage was in black and white, grainy enough to be rather dramatic as it played on the large screens displayed in the corners of the courtroom. First Sherlock fumbling with his keys at the door, then the smaller blond figure approaching and the two of them passing into the entry hall, the door shutting firmly behind them. A while later, Mycroft and his men, then John.

The Crown Prosecutor clicked a button on his handheld device, pausing the video on the back of John’s body at an angle to perfectly display the Sig nestled in the palm of his hand.

“And this? Are you able to determine what this item is, Mr. Spaulding?”

“That would be a Sig Sauer P226R, British Army designation L106A1, distributed during the years 2001-2013 for use by soldiers and medical personnel engaged in frontline combat in the war in Afghanistan.”

Sherlock felt John twitch minutely beside him. Every molecule and muscle fibre in his body had been dying to interrupt at consistent intervals, especially now that the questioning had turned to issues concerning John. He resisted, for obvious reasons. He didn’t want a replay of all those years ago.

“And are you aware of any person in possession of such an item?”

“I resoundly object, My Lord!” Mycroft’s lead defence barrister, Cynthia Porter, stood in a huff.

“On what grounds, Ms. Porter?” The Lord Chief Justice leaned back in his chair.

“My learned friend’s questions are irrelevant. This has nothing to do with my client. This is a matter of private ownership of a weapon and should be followed up elsewhere. Further discussion here is fruitless and inappropriate.” She stabbed her finger into her writing pad resting on the table, which made her brunette hair bounce slightly on her shoulders beneath her traditional horsehair wig.

“My Lord,” countered the lead Crown Prosecutor, Michael Simmons, as he pushed his glasses up his nose, “Mycroft Holmes is known to associate with individuals of a criminal nature, and short of calling him a criminal, John Watson was clearly in possession of —”

“This question assumes it is definitively more probable that the defendant associated with criminal individuals. Earlier testimony confirmed that the same model of gun was found at the crime scene with the serial number filed off and its bullets spent. Your objection is noted, Mr. Porter, and accusing civilians of criminality will not be tolerated in this court, Mr. Simmons, but in this case the weapon matches that which is captured in the video.” The Lord Chief Justice nodded definitively at Mycroft’s barrister.

“But multiple fingerprints were found on the gun, My Lord, and—”

“That will be enough, Ms. Porter, or I shall find you in contempt of court.”

She took her seat.

Sherlock reached for John’s hand.

It was going to be a very long trial.

 

*****

 

_TUESDAY_

 

“State your name.”

“Philip Cather.” Bloated and pink, Philip Cather slouched in the witness box.

“What is your relationship to the defendant, Mr. Cather?”

“None. I worked in reception services at Secret Security HQ until his bloo—until his brother had me fired. I don’t know Mycroft Holmes at all. Never met him.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Sherlock glared daggers up at him.

“What were the circumstances of your termination?”

“He…deduced something about me.”

“What did he deduce, Mr. Cather?”

“He deduced that I had an interaction with someone.”

“Was this an interaction in which you offered classified files to this person in exchange for a sexual favour?”

“Yes.”

“What was the nature of these files?”

“They were personnel files on Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, classified, top secret, “not to be removed except at the leisure”, et cetera.” Philip barely stifled an eye roll.

_Unwise, Philip_

“And the sexual favour?”

“Never occurred. I wasn’t that interested in her.”

_Smug arsehole_

“Did any money pass hands?”

“Yes. About twenty quid. Er, twenty pounds, sorry.”

“This person, did she call herself Mary Morstan?”

“She did.”

“And did Sherlock Holmes threaten you that she was an undercover security agent and could testify against you at trial?”

“He did.” Philip’s eyes shot to Sherlock’s, full of derision.

“Did you question him as to how he knew this information?”

“No. I didn’t want to talk to him for any longer than necessary.”

_  
_

*****

_WEDNESDAY_

“State your name.”

“Gregory Arthur Lestrade.”

_Ah right, that’s it_

_Greg_

“Your occupation?" _  
_

“I’m a Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard.”

“Were you with Sherlock Holmes when Mr. Moran was found to be breaking into Mr. Holmes’ flat in the autumn of last year?” 

“I was, yes.” Lestrade looked only slightly uneasy. He’d had to give evidence in several high profile criminal cases over the years – _not in front of the Lord Chief Justice, mind you_ – but he’d been through it before.

“Did you witness this yourself?”

“I did.”

“How were you able to witness this event?”

“We were in the area and were alerted to Mr. Moran’s presence by Mycroft Holmes and his security team. We—well, Sherlock—was wired for surveillance.”

“The CCTV footage of this event has already been played for His Lordship and the audience in the courtroom. You can confirm that it is yourself that appears at the end of the video?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you can also confirm that Sherlock Holmes and Sebastian Moran also appear in this video?”

“Yes.” _  
_

“How long have you known Mycroft Holmes?”

“Several years. I would say approximately… probably seven, seven or eight at this point.”

“You had known him before you arrested him for treason?”

“Yes, I had known him before then.”

“In what capacity had you known him?”

“Ermm. Various… capacities. For many years we had interactions for work-related reasons and also more… personal.” Lestrade looked perhaps a bit more than slightly uneasy.

_Hmm_

“It’s unusual that a detective inspector such as yourself would have arrested such a high-ranking member of the British government. Why were you the one to arrest him?”

“I, uh, I offered. Given my, um, relationship with—to, him.”

 

*****

 

_THURSDAY_

 

“State your name.”

“Molly Hooper.”

“What is your occupation?”

“I’m a pathologist at Barts here in London.”

“What type of work do you do there?”

“I work in the morgue, mostly processing and conducting autopsies for criminal cases.”

“You conducted the autopsy for James Moriarty?” 

“Yes. I did.” Molly pulled a stand of hair over a flushed cheek to tuck behind her ear.

“Can you describe the state of the forehead?”

“The forehead?”

“His forehead. James Moriarty’s forehead during the time of your autopsy.”

“It—it was normal. Occipitofrontal bones were all intact, frontal and nasal bones intact, no soft tissue or brain tissue damage.” 

“So there was no bullet wound in James Moriarty’s forehead?”

“No, there was not.”

“Ms. Hooper, I’m sure the court is well aware that some four years ago Mr. Sherlock Holmes was pronounced dead by the medical staff at Barts, and now the same man is sat in this very courtroom.”

“He is.” Her eyes darted to Sherlock.

John shifted in his seat. Sherlock held his breath.

“Is it or is it not true that you were responsible for helping Mr. Holmes fake his death by doctoring medical reports and procuring false records?”

“Um.”

“Answer the question, Ms. Hooper.”

_Molly, say whatever you need to_

_It’s not worth it  
_

“I must object to this question, my Lord. My learned friend is incorrect.”

“Ms. Porter?”

_Oh thank god_

“The opposing counsel is argumentative and badgering, not to mention assumes facts not in evidence.” She shot Mr. Simmons a pointed look.

_And some other things besides_

_But we’ll let those slide_

“Well, how else could he have done it!?” Mr. Simmons nearly shouted, indignant. 

“Your reasons for objection are found to be merited. Redirect your line of questioning, Mr. Simmons.” The Lord Chief Justice crossed his arms over his chest.

 

*****

_FRIDAY_

“State your name.”

“Mrs. Martha Hudson.”

“Where were you during the events of this previous January?”

“I was away at my sister’s. I’ve got a bad hip and she’s got a knee, you see.” A little giggle. “We’re quite a pair, the two of us, and I go up to visit her every so often, she’s in Liverpool, you know, and we tend to hobble around—” _  
_

“Mrs. Hudson, were you aware that these events were occurring in your absence?”

“Goodness no, I didn’t know anything about it. Sherlock had been awfully heartbro—worried about John and the last I saw him he was trying to find him. That’s all I knew.” She gave a comforting look down to John and Sherlock, sat side by side.

_Bless you Mrs. Hudson_

“Nothing concerned you about the additional surveillance measures?” Mr. Simmons adjusted the label of his jacket.

“The boys always get up to all sorts, and Mycroft pops round every now and then. I figured it was to do with some case or other for that detective inspector, Mr. Lestrade. Lots of those cases have been in the papers, did you know? And John’s blog is quite famous now. Have you seen it? I’d say The Aluminium Crutch is probably his most popular—”

“My Lord, if it is convenient, perhaps we shall break for lunch?”

*****

_MONDAY_

“State your name.”

“Lady Elizabeth Smallwood.”

“Please explain the circumstances regarding the solicitation of Sherlock Holmes’ undercover services in exchange for a life sentence for the murder of Charles August Magnussen on Christmas day one year ago.” Mr. Simmons rubbed the back of his neck.

“Several high-ranking government officials and I had a discussion that resulted Mr. Holmes’ name being brought up for some undercover work in Eastern Europe. A nasty assignment, truly.”

“Nasty?” _  
_

“It would have been a suicide mission.”

“Was Mycroft Holmes involved in this conversation?”

“He was.”

“Were you surprised that Mr. Holmes would have offered his own brother to take on such a deadly operation?”

_I’m not surprised_

_And I’m the brother_

John stifled a snort.

_Did I say that out loud?_

“I cannot speak for the status of private relationships between siblings. I know neither man well and would not care to impose my judgment on whether or not that suggestion was appropriate,” Lady Smallwood said sternly, her expression carefully schooled into a composition of neutrality.

“Did you have any indication that Sherlock Holmes’ mission scheduled for January of last year would be aborted due to the sudden appearance of a video of James Moriarty?”

“I did not.”

“Did Mycroft Holmes have any indication?”

“I do not know what Mr. Holmes knew or did not know at that time, but I feel rather strongly no, do not believe so.” Her consonants popped and buzzed into the microphone.

*****

_TUESDAY_

“State your name.”

“Janine Hawkins.” She bit her lip.

“Is Sebastian Moran your uncle?”

“Yes. My mother’s eldest brother.”

“Did you know he was going by the alias of Benjamin Myers?”

“No. We’re not close.”

“Were you friends with a woman who called herself Mary Morstan?”

“I was, yes.”

“How did you meet her?”

“Technically I met her at a Pret. We reached for the same jambon-beurre at the same time and got to chatting about our jobs. It was between her surgery and my office, so we ended up seeing each other regularly. I’d stop in at lunchtime and there she’d be. We just sort of… hit it off.”

“Did she tell you she had just moved from Dublin?”

“She did. I’d just moved from there as well and she said that was quite a coincidence. We’d lived down the street from each other apparently. I didn’t remember her but she remembered me. She’d seen me around, she’d said.”

“You said you chatted about your jobs. Did you tell her who you worked for?”

“I did.”

“Did she ask you questions about the type of work you did for Mr. Magnussen?”

“Occasionally, yes.”

“Did she ask you if Mr. Magnussen was in the habit of procuring sensitive documents and other personal information about people?”

“Not in those words, but I suppose she sort of did.” Janine scratched the inside of her wrist and chewed on her bottom lip.

“Please elaborate.”

_Go on Janine_

_Please elaborate_

“She said she’d heard he knew a lot of stuff about a lot of people and that he was someone you wouldn’t want to cross.” Janine shook her hair back to fall over her shoulders. She carefully lifted her glass to take a drink of water.

“Did she ask how he came about this information?”

“No," as she set the glass back down.

“Did she ask for personal details such as access to his daily schedule?”

“No. She knew that I managed it, but that’s all. I might have occasionally mentioned something, but not regularly.” _  
_

“Did she talk about her work?”

“Yes, she did. She told me she was a nurse at that surgery. She talked about starting to date John Watson.”

“And she asked you to be the maid of honour at her wedding to John Watson?” _  
_

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“How long had you known her at that point?”

“I’d say less than a year, definitely.”

“Did you think that was a suitable period of time to be close enough to someone to become their maid of honour?”

_Valid question_

“I couldn’t say—”

“This question is objectionable, My Lord.” Ms. Porter sprang to her feet.

“On what grounds do you make this claim?” asked the Lord Chief Justice.

“My learned friend is calling for a conclusion and asking an opinion rather than the facts, my Lord.”

“Ask the witness another question, Mr. Simmons.” Ms. Porter took her seat again with an air of satisfaction.

“I understand, My Lord,” came the Crown Prosecutor’s response with a pert nod. He turned back to Janine. “Ms. Hawkins, did you conduct a clandestine relationship with Sherlock Holmes?” Mr. Simmons was unashamedly relentless.

_I quite like your style, Mr. Simmons_

“We… met at John and Mary’s wedding and briefly dated. I wouldn’t call it clandestine. Our breakup was all over the papers. I even did an interview with The One Show.”

“Was the relationship serious?”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

“Did Sherlock Holmes propose marriage to you on the night that he was shot?”

“He did.”

“And you wouldn’t call it serious?”

“Pardon the interruption but again I must object to this line of questioning, My Lord.” Ms. Porter didn’t bother to stand.

“Proceed with another question, Mr. Simmons,” remarked the Lord Chief Justice rather labouriously.

“Very well, My Lord. Ms. Hawkins, were you responsible for providing Sherlock Holmes and John Watson access to Mr. Magnussen’s private flat that evening?”

“Yes, I was.”

“This was against Mr. Magussen’s policy. Why did you allow them access?”

“Well, he _had_ just proposed.”

_Sorry about that_

_Again_

“Did you see the woman you knew as Mary Morstan in Mr. Magnussen’s private flat that evening?”

“I couldn’t say for sure… I was knocked out. I do remember that it smelled like her perfume.”

“What was her perfume?”

“Claire de la Lune.”

“Did she wear this perfume frequently?”

“Always.”

“Your uncle, Mr. Moran, was seen on CCTV cameras breaking into 221B Baker Street. How did he know that was Mr. Holmes private residence?”

“I don’t know. It’s been in the papers.” Janine was starting to look a little worn.

“So you never told him Mr. Holmes’ address?”

“No.” _  
_

“But you had visited his residence yourself?”

“Yes.”

“And what were the nature of those visits?”

_Not of the nature of which she might have liked_

“My Lord, I cannot sit idly by without once again objecting to this line of questioning! The private visits between two individuals are not relevant to my client’s case.” Ms. Porter gestured toward Mycroft, who was sitting proper as a pigeon and glaring at the Crown Prosecutor.

“Revise your line of questioning, Mr. Simmons.”

“Were you aware of the relationship between the woman you knew as Mary Morstan and your uncle, Mr. Moran?

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Did you suggest to her that he was your uncle?”

“No.”

“Did he suggest to you that he knew her?”

“No.”

*****

_WEDNESDAY_

“State your name.”

“David Hunter.” He stood stiffly in the witness box.

“What was your relationship to the deceased?”

“Uhm, we dated. Dated for two years.”

“How did that relationship end?”

“She ended it." _  
_

“How did she end it?”

“She said she needed to move on.” David licked his lips nervously.

“Did she give you any other information, Mr. Hunter?”

“No." _  
_

“When did the relationship end?”

“About six months before she got engaged to... him. John.”

“Were you present at their wedding?”

“Yes. I was an usher.”

“And this was a happy day for the couple?" _  
_

_You were her friend, weren’t you?_

“I dunno.”

“Were you aware of her employment as a British Secret Services operative?” _  
_

“Sorry, could I get a glass of water? My throat’s gone parched.”

“Actually, My Lord, I believe we are overdue to break for lunch.”

*****

 

_THURSDAY_

“State your name.”

“John Watson.” His eyes went to Sherlock.

_It’s alright John_

_Look at me_

_It’s going to be fine_

“What is your occupation?”

“I’m a doctor.”

_An army doctor_

“How did you meet the woman you knew as Mary Morstan?”

“At the surgery where I worked. She was a new nurse there and I’d gone back to work after… I’d gotten a new job and she worked there also.”

“Did she share her history with you?”

“History?”

“Personal details about her background.”

“She told me she’d been a nurse for twelve years, she was an orphan, she’d moved around a lot. Erm, things she liked. Hobbies.”

“Did you know her for quite a long while before marrying her?”

“No.”

“How long did you know her before marrying her?”

“I don’t see why that’s relevant.” John frowned. 

“Answer the question, Mr. Watson.”

“Dr. Watson.” The frown deepened.

_An army captain doctor_

“Dr. Watson, answer the question. Please.” Mr. Simmons was doing his best to look exasperated.

“I knew her for about six months, we dated, I proposed, we got married. I dunno, maybe a little over a year? Total. That I knew her. Maybe a bit more than that.”

“Did you know about her history as an assassin?”

“Yes. I did. Yes.”

“How did you become aware of this aspect of her history?”

“Not until she. She shot my—Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes—in Magnussens’ flat. And then the whole thing came undone.”

“Is it correct to say you did not report her identity to the police or any other legal entity?”

“No.”

“Why did you not?”

“It was a… personal matter.” John’s jaw clenched, Sherlock knew, in practiced choreography with his fist, but that was hidden behind the walls of the witness box.

“At any point did you know about her history as a British Secret Services operative?”

“No, not until around the time of her death.” 

_You’re doing well_

_You’re doing so well_

“Did you know about Sherlock Holmes’ history as a British Secret Services operative?”

“After the Magnussen situation I knew he was going to do some undercover work for his brother. That’s all.”

“Were you aware of his undercover work some years previous?”

“Not…not at the time, no. No, I wasn’t.”

_I’ll spend the rest of my life making that up to you_

“How would you describe your relationship to Mycroft Holmes?”

“I’ve known him for six years or so.”

“I didn’t ask how long you’ve known him, I’ve asked what your relationship is to him?”

“He’s Sherlock’s brother, so. I’ve spent some time with him.”

“Would you consider yourself to be friends?”

 _Indeterminate_

“I wouldn’t say that. More like, we have to work together.” 

“Colleagues?”

“Whatever you’d like to call it.”

_Precisely_

"Did you suspect Mr. Holmes knew of the false pregnancy orchestrated in part by Mr. Moran?"

"No. I didn't know about it either. So no." John was solid as a statue in the witness box.

"Were you aware of the duplicitous nature of several agents working for both James Moriarty and Mycroft Holmes?"

"Not until the night at the pool."

"Did you anticipate the events at the pool concerning the physical reappearance and presence of James Moriarty?" Mr. Simmons was determined to speed up the tempo of the questioning.

"No, of course not. I had no idea that would happen."

"Did you kill James Moriarty?"

John paused.

"I don't know. I had an unsighted shot."

“Did you know there were two copies of the memory stick containing sensitive information regarding the woman you knew as Mary Morstan?”

“No. I didn’t know there were two.”

“Did Mary Morstan give you one of these copies?”

“She did, yes.”

“Did you read its contents?”

“Not at the time. I destroyed it.”

“But you have read the duplicate copy?” Mr. Simmons flipped through his notes.

“Yes, I have.” John shifted his feet and readjusted his jacket. 

_You’re doing so well_

“Have you read the DNA report that confirms Ms. Morstan’s true identity?”

“Yes.”

“Would you please state Mary Morstan’s real, legally held name?”

 _Keep going John_

“Anna Georgina Robinson-Adams.”

“Did you know that this was her name prior to her death?”

“No.”

 

*****

 

_FRIDAY_

“That concludes the testimony at this hour. Presentation of evidence and cross-examination will continue next week. Scheduled witnesses include Sherlock Holmes, Sebastian Moran, and Mycroft Holmes.”

 

_________________________________________________________

 

They slept curled in each other's arms for two days. Over slow waves of worry and comfort they floated, tethered together in the isolated ocean of 221B, and waited in the rain for Monday to come. 

 

________________________________________________________

_MONDAY_

“State your name.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“What is your occupation, Mr. Holmes?”

“Consulting detective.”

“What is your relationship to Mycroft Holmes?”

“I think it should be fairly obvious by this point that he is my brother.”

“And what is your relationship to John Watson?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two tiny things:
> 
> Did you catch the appropriated line from Hermione?  
> The jambon-beurre is my favourite at Prets.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	12. or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> O, lover! O, desire! 
> 
> In the heavy heat of endless night  
> the sun will rise again and bring new light  
> I am whole beneath the midnight moon  
> the sun comes far too soon 
> 
> When I found you in the deepest darkness  
> you were laughing, I was almost breathless  
> but in the spiral dawn  
> we became one 
> 
> Leave it to me to love you
> 
> Midnight Moon ~ Waterstrider
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
> [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/xY6AK0s7ttA)

Sherlock let his eyes fall closed for a single moment. His chin stuck out slightly on his swallow, his one and only tell.

“I.”

“Your response, Mr. Holmes?”

John alone knew: Sherlock’s emotional resolve was as thin as the skin on an onion.

Translucent. 

_________________________________________________________

20:26

31 January 2010

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

Post [Draft]

_The Chinese place was good. Something about the bottom third of a door handle? Dunno what he was on about there but the dim sum was decent. The conversation was a bit weird at times but also… decent. Yeah, better than decent, I’d say. He’s so unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. Over dinner he deduced more stuff about me, all spot on of course. (Mostly.) He’s an odd one._

_I like him._

_I think I’ll give it a go and move in._

_*****_

14:12

7 January 2011

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

Post [Draft]

_She said we were a couple. A couple? What business is it of hers? She just comes waltzing in here, NOT DEAD, and saying all these… things that really fuck with my head. We’re NOT a couple. We’re NOT together. He doesn’t feel things THAT WAY and if he did I’m pretty fucking sure he wouldn’t feel them for me._

_Why did she have to insinuate that I feel things for him and then on top of it he had to fucking BE THERE AND HEAR IT_

_Fuck I am FUCKED FUCK FUCK FUCK_

*****

23:10

10 June 2011

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

 

Post [Draft]

_Sometimes I think about telling him._

_It’s absolutely mad. But I do, I do think about it. Think about how he’d react. What he’d say back, maybe._

_Probably tear me to shreds. Or stare at me blankly._

_Can’t decide which would be worse really._

_But somehow that’s not quite enough to put me off._

_Well.  
_

_Put me off the idea of telling him? Yeah._

_Him? Never._

_Maybe once this Moriarty stuff is done and we’re just back to us again._

_*****_

 

08:48

15 June 2011

 

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

 

Post [Draft]

_He’s dead._

_It took me twenty minutes to type that sentence and now I can’t delete it._

_*****_

13:56

12 June 2012

 

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

 

Post [Draft]

_It’s been a year. One year. The anniversary is today. I thought somehow it would be easier or harder but it just… is. Kind of like how we always just: were. Together without being together. I dreamt a few weeks ago that he was alive and we were back in 221B. He came out of his bedroom mumbling to himself about something and plopped down on the stool in the kitchen and I got up out of my chair and went over to him and just kissed him on the mouth. Simple as that._

_What’s that supposed to mean? He’s dead and he’s not coming back and we never kissed, did we._

_I torment myself with dreams._

_________________________________________________________

 

John startled himself awake. Sherlock was snoring, sprawled like a lesser-limbed starfish. The clock opposite John’s pillow read 04:09.

Dreams.

_I was dreaming about him_

_Dead_

Sherlock, quite alive, responded with a slightly less noisy snuffle.

The trial.

 _Sherlock has to testify on Monday_ , he blinked into the darkness, the realities of their circumstances slamming back into his brain and into his chest with a dull thud.

John rolled over on his side, neither shoulder very apt these days but the left one more used to troubles by now. Luckily Sherlock was to his left. _All the better to admire His Grace’s snuffly drooling_ , John thought, as he let his eyes trace over the blue-grey shadows sketched over Sherlock’s face, his features placid and peaceful in his sleep.

_And now he knows I love him_

_And now I know he loves me_

_And what are we… now?_

John let his body be still for a few moments and counted the exhales that caressed his face from across the short distance between their pillows. The faint hum of the street below was muted by pings of raindrops that kissed the window panes, little _plip plip plip_ patterns in a rhythm that soon eased John’s eyes half-closed again. The scent of Sherlock’s skin and the late winter rain and the warm cotton bedclothes lulled John back into the amber-tinted haze of his dreams.

Later, when he peeked one eye open and the clock read 08:46, weak and watery sunlight streamed through those same window panes stripped clean of the last remaining strongholds of ice. Frost licked at the frames but through the rain, slices of sun were warming the bedroom air behind the glass and John resisted the temptation to keep his eyes closed and burrow deeper under the covers. He turned his head to check – still asleep. Still drooling. The snuffles had stopped and were replaced with steady, shallow breaths. Sherlock was spread wide on the bed, legs and arms reaching in their blindness for heat, for space, for John, and John had been tucked up into a corner, over to the side, down toward the bottom, and John had been found by limbs and lips in the night.

John sat up and pulled a t-shirt from the floor up and over his head. The cotton fabric, chilled on the dusty floorboards, was ice on his skin but a piss was needed and as he stumbled into the loo he was glad of the bit of extra warmth. Finished, he popped his head back into the bedroom. Sherlock was none the wiser he had left. Why not let him sleep then, repay an old kindness. There was somewhere John had wanted to go back to and needed to go back to first alone. He listened for Mrs. Hudson. Quiet, so she was out for the morning then.

He climbed the steps up to his old room.

In the weeks he had been back at Baker Street, he had only once ventured up those stairs to rummage around for an old jumper. After finding his prize he’d marched back down the steps straight away and since then had always escaped the magnetic pull of it somehow, but now he found himself transported, his legs moving mindlessly beneath him. Within moments he reached the door and found the shattered lock still haphazardly attached to the handle. Two breaths, inhale, exhale, and he was inside the room.

It was the same, really, and it was completely different. After Sherlock’s death, he’d left the place in shambles, exactly as it was save for a few things he shoved into a suitcase before stumbling over to Mike Stamford’s flat in a daze. The small desk was there, the bedside table, the wardrobe, a few battered paperbacks, empty tea mugs, an electric alarm clock, some of his old jumpers… these things were artefacts of a time absent ~~Mary~~ Anna, absent the current mess they were in, absent the sudden and mutual declarations of love witnessed by mouldy experiments in the kitchen a few weeks ago. How many nights had John struggled to find peace in this bed, limbs pressed tight against his body as he fought the urge to take himself in his fist and imagine it was warm, wet flesh instead of his own fingers? How many nights had he woken from a nightmare, only to hear the soft singing of violin and the distant _click_ of the boiled kettle? How many nights had he entertained himself, drunk off whisky and adoration, practicing lines he could never even mouth to himself in the mirror the morning after?

He stared down at the bed. It was made up but untucked, the duvet creased and rustled.

That wasn’t like him. He usually made the bed first thing, hospital corners an old unbreakable habit. Wouldn’t he have done it, that final morning so long ago when all of this began with an ending? _  
_

He bent to sniff at the pillow and at once his heart punched at the cage of his ribs.

_Sherlock_

“Only when you were away,” came from the doorway, rough still from sleep, a statue, nude for his sheet.

John turned to face him, chin at an angle to the messed bed. The words came before he’d thought them. “I wanted to sleep in your bed after you’d died.” His voice, plain, coughed up dust in the air.

Something passed through Sherlock’s expression like a thing long forgotten come remembered. “You’ve said that to me before.”

“When?”

“In a dream.”

Sherlock, suddenly apparently wary of his unannounced invasion, hesitated. “I’ll.” A pause. “Tea, then? I’ll leave you to it.” He shifted his sheet and turned on a bare heel.

“No. Stay.” John swallowed. “If you like.”

Sherlock bowed his head and shuffled into the room. He sat himself gently at the end of the bed, demure and patient. John stood near the wardrobe and the tiny window crusted with melting frost, his arms crossed over his chest. Neither spoke. Sherlock made to lie down and pressed his back flat against the mattress which in turn rumpled the duvet even more and gave him an inky halo of fluffed curls. John spread his weight out over both feet and rubbed his palm slowly over his forehead as he chewed on his bottom lip.

Rain continued to tap rhythms against the wall of John’s thoughts.

After a few minutes supine, Sherlock sat up and let the sheet drop from a shoulder. He snuck a look at John, then shifted further up the bed into a sitting position, his back now flush against the headboard and his legs spread in a v to balance his weight. John watched Sherlock’s head slowly _thunk_ back against the wall, exposing columns of pale smooth skin dotted with freckles in patterns John was starting to learn, could trace with the tip of his tongue with his eyes kept closed.

What did Sherlock need to know the solar system for?

He was a solar system, a universe contained, a constellation of contradictions.

“Keep your legs still.” _  
_

“Hm?”

“Keep your legs like that.” John crossed the small space and raised a knee, then the other up onto the bed, slowly shuffling up into the v between Sherlock’s thighs. He watched Sherlock watch him, eyes wide. John leaned forward, shifted his weight onto his hands and then lowered himself down to lay flat on his stomach on the mattress, head resting on Sherlock’s right thigh, shoulders between his knees, legs stretched out behind him hanging off the end of the bed. He draped his left arm over a patch of bare skin showing through a gap in the sheet and tucked his right shoulder up into the warm space between Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock was motionless and John held his breath.

Never, _never_ , had he allowed himself to really believe, all those years ago, that this day would ever come, that he would be allowed to spread Sherlock’s legs and crawl up between them on the same mattress where so many times he had spilled into his own hand in the darkness. That the warmth of Sherlock’s skin would soak through to his bones as he pressed his cheek against the place where hip and thigh met, then nuzzled over, closer, breathing in the scents of laundry cleanser and Sherlock and then something like an unlatching happened, the emotion too big for him that it spread itself through his body and devoured him whole.

He hummed his breath out onto freckled skin and shifted his head, then the sheet, to lay a wet line of kisses down the meridian of Sherlock’s thigh.

_Meridian_

_n.: (astronomy)_

  *       _the great circle passing through the celestial poles, the zenith, and the nadir_



John, checking Sherlock’s eyes, moved the sheet back further. A millimetre, another millimetre, and Sherlock’s hand fell to the back of John’s neck. Fingers pressed tenderly into the muscles there and other fingers moved to carefully pinch and pull at the wrinkled fabric. Gradually, agonisingly slowly—

uncovered.

“All right?”

“All right.”

_“There are several ways in which the meridian can be divided into semicircles.”_

John shifted his weight on his elbows and lifted his head, meeting Sherlock’s eyes again. Steely grey-blue-green today and steady. He bit his bottom lip between his teeth as he saw Sherlock push his hips into the mattress, spreading himself out for John, holding John’s body tucked safe between his knees. Each seemed to be waiting for something. The air in the bedroom had grown dense and close, opaque like a fog around them.

John watched Sherlock watching him, and then he took Sherlock’s cock into his mouth.

_“A celestial object will appear to drift past the local meridian as the Earth spins, for the meridian is fixed to the local horizon.”_

John closed his eyes as he welcomed the weight of Sherlock on his tongue, the taste of him earth-dark and sweet and warm. He worked his way down, up, down, twice again, and then pulled off to lick a wet, wide stripe up the velvety skin on the underside before sucking him in again. Sherlock had been soft, curled to the side before, but now was growing heavy in John’s mouth. Up on his elbows John kissed at the head of Sherlock’s cock, licked at the tip and sucked it lightly, then bobbed down and up and down again, hollowing out his cheeks, letting Sherlock fill him, his lips stretched around his teeth.

Sherlock, quiet, was starting to pant, his chest a bellows.

John tucked the fingers of his right hand beneath Sherlock’s bollocks, massaging the tender skin there as Sherlock’s thighs trembled at his ears and John’s mouth worked. Breathing through his nose he felt his own hips rocking against the mattress as Sherlock thrust slightly, _once, twice, again, four times_ , into his mouth. He moaned around Sherlock’s cock and pulled off to swallow, the back of his throat dry, and checked Sherlock’s face.

_“The object reaches its highest point in the sky when crossing the meridian.”_

Sherlock tucked his legs closer around John’s body, arching his knees up just slightly, a suggestion. He smiled, a devastation.

John traced his fingers over the bare skin of Sherlock’s hip, his narrow thigh, and kissed the base of his cock, nosed into the fine dark hairs there, reached his fingers back farther to find the tight ring of muscle hot at his fingertips. He sucked Sherlock down again, cheeks full of spit, and felt Sherlock pulse against him. His neck ached and his elbows dug into the bed and he worked the tip of a finger into Sherlock as piercing eyes slid half-lidded on the scene below them. A spurt of precome landed on the back of John’s tongue and Sherlock shifted his weight, easing his thighs away further. John felt Sherlock open around his finger and Sherlock made a deep, throaty sound in his chest as John offered another kiss, wet.

His own cock was trapped beneath him, sliding rough in his pants against the crinkled duvet, and he shamelessly rolled his hips in time with Sherlock’s shallow thrusts into his mouth _, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,_ until the heat in the pit of his belly flared too strongly and he pulled off Sherlock’s cock again to look up. Sherlock’s eyes were trained on the place where his body had entered John’s, one hand still pressed on the back of John’s neck, the other tangled forgotten in the abandoned sheet. His nipples were peaked, pink stars on their pale canvas blotchy with arousal. John wiped his chin on the duvet. Their eyes held on to each other before John dipped his head again and warmed Sherlock between his lips, then took him deep in his mouth, holding him loose and lolling on his tongue.

“John,” Sherlock gasped.

Insatiable, he continued, shoulders aching, cock aching, neck aching, Sherlock panting above him. Another gush of precome in the back of his mouth, and he slid his finger fully into Sherlock, sheathing it in the tight heat. He could feel the tempo of Sherlock’s heartbeat in his mouth and around his finger and pressed his own cock deep into the mattress. The muscles in his arse clenched with the effort but he found little relief there.

_“There are an infinite number of meridians.”_

Sherlock moaned, his knees finally falling, dead weight, out to the sides and away from John’s shoulders. John let Sherlock’s cock slide slowly out from between his lips and eased his finger away as well. In moments he was up on his knees, his back and neck and shoulders resisting the sudden change, as he kneeled in front of his love and shoved his fingers under his own waistband to pull his pants down his thighs.

Sherlock stared with soft eyes. His mouth fell open, unbuttoned.

John moved to strip himself of his t-shirt and pants and wobbled slightly to keep his balance on the bed. Rain drummed against the glass of the tiny window and Sherlock’s cock twitched in sympathy to John’s as he crawled back between Sherlock’s legs, then readjusted them both on the mattress. He pulled Sherlock down by slim hips beneath him and pressed Sherlock’s knees up near his shoulders, nearly folded in two. Their noses brushed together. John could barely see the colour of those grey-green-blue irises as he spread his knees and braced his arms around Sherlock’s head, letting their cocks rest, overlapped, between his legs. He lowered his head and pressed their mouths together.

_“The meridian is divided into halves terminated by the horizon’s north and south points.”_

Sherlock’s tongue pushed against John’s lips only to slide comfortably past them, each finding their mouths open and ready for each other. Fingers pressed lightly and then not so lightly into arsecheeks and around hipbones and John felt his belly heat against Sherlock as their kisses grew deeper. A thin sheen of sweat pricked up over John’s back and across his chest and stomach, coating him against Sherlock’s burning skin. He felt Sherlock become still beneath him.

“Where?”

“In the drawer.”

In an instant the squelch of an old bottle of lube echoed in John’s ears as he watched Sherlock press the clear gel between his palms and then wrap one long-fingered fist around John’s cock and one around his own. His eyes drove spears into John’s heart, held his breathing captive in shallow pants. Sherlock moved his legs to the front of scarred shoulders, then slipped slender calves over John’s back. He angled his arse up towards John’s cock and let his hand slip lazily from its grip there, instead tightening the one on his own. John pressed their foreheads together and looked down to grab hold of himself. He touched the tip of his cock, shiny and pink, to the opening of Sherlock’s body. He felt as though he could burst.

_“The meridian_ _contains the horizon’s north and south points.”_

The rain beat relentlessly at the windowpanes and John pressed in, slowly, steadily, until he was disappeared. He felt Sherlock stretch around him and watched the base of his belly rise and fall in time with the buzzing in his ears. Sherlock’s mouth was sweet as plums and John forced his hips to be stationary as they took a moment with lips on lips to adjust to the joining of their bodies. He wanted to capture the simple, still moment before his hips would start working and they would both spill out into and over themselves, the tender connection between them throbbing to the drumming of twinned heartbeats.

John gave a thrust and Sherlock’s eyes rolled back into his head before sliding half closed.

Another thrust, slick skin on skin, quiet, rustling on the duvet. Another, and another, and another. John pumped his hips, Sherlock’s calves pressed over John’s shoulders, another thrust. Mouths fell open. Sherlock’s cock bobbed between his legs, half-forgotten in a loose fist, as John slid in and out of his body. Heat flared again and grew in the base of John’s cock, into his belly, followed by a lovely pressure deep within him behind his bollocks. Another thrust, and the long-fingered fist remembered itself. Sherlock’s cheeks bloomed like a rose and John bit the inside of his lip.

_“The meridian is_ _undefined when the observer is at the north or south points.”_

A few too-hasty pumps and the top of Sherlock’s head bumped up against the headboard so John pulled them down again, his hand going up to rub at and then cover the sore spot. His hips rolled, carefully, more slowly, drawing him in and out and back in again to the close heat of their bodies, his cock in Sherlock’s arse, his mouth in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock licked at John’s lips and worked his fist faster over himself. John pressed his palm flat against his old mattress, against his old pillow, seeking the seeds of pressure in the core of his hips.

Sherlock breathed, _huh, uh, uh, huh, huh,_ through an open mouth pressed to John’s cheek, a rhythm matched to each thrust. His eyes were half open and he looked down to watch the muscles of John’s abdomen clench above his own. _  
_

“John." _  
_

“Hm.”

John paused, holding himself still within Sherlock as long legs shifted and wrapped around the sides of John’s arms, then slid down to tighten around his waist. John, in the meantime, tucked Sherlock’s leaking cock into his fist, stroking softly, gentle. He leaned down to trace a constellation with his tongue, eyes closed. Sherlock hummed.

“All right.”

“All right.”

Again, John moved.

_“The term meridian means both midday and south.”_

Sherlock let his head fall back onto the pillow as John pistoned in and out of him and held John by the neck, the biceps, pressed up for a kiss, pressed John down to his chest, came up to rest one hand up behind his head on the bed and the other closed once again around himself. His legs, tight on John’s waist, held their bodies together. John panted open-mouthed, sweaty in the chilly room. _  
_

They held each other in the other's gaze and listened to the rain.

“Sher—” John breathed out, drinking in the sight of parted pink lips and flushed cheeks.

Sherlock held John’s head in his hands and pulled him close for a kiss.

John felt a surge of warmth at the base of his spine as he plunged himself deeper into Sherlock’s body and tucked his head down into white-hot neck. The muscles in his thighs strained and his back ached but he felt the head of his cock brush over and over against the sensitive bundle of nerves inside Sherlock, who made such an obscene sound of arousal that John felt light headed. He lifted his mouth to the side of Sherlock’s jaw and swept his lips over the faintest traces of stubble as he pushed deeper again, then pulled nearly out, only the head of his cock kept tight inside the ring of muscle.

“ _Fuck that's good you feel good you’re so good love_ ,” he breathed into the shell of Sherlock’s ear before pressing himself in deep again.

Sherlock offered an appreciative moan in response and went at his own cock faster. _  
_

John found a new rhythm and Sherlock rolled his hips as he could, pressed flush against the base of John’s body, their skin sweat slick together there.

_“A geographical meridian is the half of an imaginary great circle on Earth’s surface.”_

The rain persisted, and they sucked at each other’s mouths, and their warm-salt skin scented the bedroom air.

John watched Sherlock’s eyes drift open and closed with each rock of their bodies, watched his back arch off the bed and that star-crossed skin stretch its lengths, watched rosy buds of nipples flush and harden at his touch, watched Sherlock completely spread out beneath him in his arms.

And all of it, in John’s old bed.

John again bent his head to press his lips against the pale column of Sherlock’s throat and laid his forehead to fit in the damp curve of neck and shoulder as he pumped faster into Sherlock, who huffed a litany of little open-mouthed moans against John’s temple. On one forearm to support his weight John reached between their bodies and found wet skin from sweat and precome. Sherlock’s fingers were lax around himself but tightened when joined by John’s fist. They worked their intertwined fingers around the head of Sherlock’s cock as John’s hips snapped a hasty rhythm against Sherlock’s arse.

“ _C’mon, come for me, c’mon love_ ,” John mumbled into a twist of curls.

“ _Love_ ,” Sherlock purred, eyes falling closed again. His cheeks glistened in lovely contrast to the plain white pillow.

John was relentless. His pulse pounded at his temples, soothed in bursts by Sherlock’s humid breath on his skin. Letting go of Sherlock’s cock and up on both elbows he tucked a forearm between arm and chest and wrapped his hand around to Sherlock’s back, pressing their bodies from chest to hips tight together so no space existed between them. He could feel the pressure coiled behind his prick start to build, dense and hot, the base of his spine tingling, electric. Sherlock abandoned his cock and clenched his fingers into the muscles of John’s arse, pushing his own arse impossibly closer to the v of John’s hips, his thighs straining around a heaving ribcage.

The rain poured and John gave another deep thrust, _another, another, another, another, another_ , and his orgasm begin its spiral, his mouth lost on Sherlock’s tongue. A wave, an ocean, pulling magnetic against him, spinning, meridians criss-crossing constellations on Sherlock’s skin lit him up from the inside, a flood of salt-slick-sweetness pounding in his ears, his mouth, Sherlock’s mouth a red prize between his lips, his cock pulsing heavy held tight hot deep inside, a secret, exploding spilling wet and trembling, a gush, a burst of silk smooth against his stomach and Sherlock shaking and shaking and shaking, his lungs heaving, breath high and fast, sweat beading a silver crown against his curls.

John collapsed into Sherlock’s body.

They calmed slowly, twisted into old sheets. Skin cooled to shivers.

Breathing, breathing.

“ _The Prime Meridian was set at zero degrees of longitude.”_

Sherlock kissed John on the mouth.

They slept until late afternoon with limbs tucked tight around each other.

When they woke, they found that the rain had persisted, and the snow was near all melted. _  
_

Monday was coming.

_________________________________________________________

“Mr. Holmes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the [ Wikipedia page](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meridian_%28geography%29) about meridians, which I'm sure the editors had not anticipated would be thus employed ;)


	13. and so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything will be alright
> 
> I will never, never fall  
> Stars at night turn to dust
> 
> Once I wanted, wanted to be  
> That's what you said to me
> 
> Dear Chan Marshall ~ We Are Trees
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
>  [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/nyKwLfEMFIY)

“ _Mister. Holmes_.”

Sherlock’s eyes watched John’s eyes minutely shift to count the tick of the clock behind the Lord Chief Justice’s head and Sherlock heard the stifled sneeze of someone in the public gallery, muddled in an already muddled handkerchief, and Sherlock tested the tensile strength of his trousers by bouncing his knees up and down, slightly, not enough to be seen, not enough for anyone to notice, and Sherlock looked back at John, and Sherlock felt like the entirety of thirty-odd years of life had led to this moment.

Sherlock, as much as he used to hate it, _felt._

Sherlock felt the simmering, heavy-headed weirdness of the layer between awake and sleeping muddle itself in between his eyebrows, the dull weight that settles in after interrupted sleep. He’d slept just fine. Slept in John’s arms for the last new nights. A headache, then. Dehydrated, most likely. He reached for his small clear glass of tepid water and took a long sip, then placed the glass down again, slow, steady, slow, _steady, slow, steady_.

The clock ticked its impatience.

“I require your response at once, Mr. Holmes. Please.” The counsellor was starting to look a bit peeved, not to mention the hawk-like scowl Mycroft was shooting the center of Sherlock’s chest.

“Sorry?”

“ _Who is John Watson to you_?” Each word emphasised, a bow against strings, with consonants plucked out between the vowels.

Sherlock swallowed again, deliberate.

“Appalling.” 

“So you would classify your relationship to John Watson as appalling, Mr. Holmes?” A barely stifled eye-raise met his gaze behind a set of prim spectacles.

Sherlock felt a twinge down the length of his spine. “No. You are, and your rather assiduous line of questioning.”

“My Lord Chief Justice, I will not stand for this—”

“I will not compress my ‘relationship to John Watson’ into a neat sequence of syllables and sounds that do everything to minimise and nothing to capture the truth of what has been a long—”

He knew he shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t escape into his mind palace in the middle of testifying in what is one of the biggest criminal court cases in London’s recent history, not least one that involves his wretched brother: he only goes there when he must, when he needs to confirm some hypotheses, retrieve some data. The mind palace is not an escape.

_Just_

_To be sure_

_Of how I should put it_

Sherlock watched John slowly disappear as though he was vapour in a dream. The courtroom faded into a pantomimed version of itself, colours diluting as they faded. The heavy, concentrated pull sucked down him into its familiar renderings. He caught a glimpse of Mycroft, lips now pursed in a fish-face frown, just as he found himself standing where he stood all those years ago.

It had been a long time since he visited this place.

_Sherlock is stood in the central corridor of the west building of Roland Kerr Further Education College. Lights off, quiet, exactly the same as it was that night. That very, very first night, all those years ago. This is where he keeps his memories of John locked tight, in the dark, waiting always in shadow. He sighs, takes a step forward, places his hand on the door to the first classroom on his left, and begins what he knows will be a long process._

 

*

 

_“It was trapped.” John Watson says out of nowhere. It’s approximately 02:30 in the morning and they’re sat in a dingy booth in the good Chinese restaurant at the corner of Baker Street. John Watson just killed a cabbie with an illegally-held firearm and now he’s tucking into a bowl of steamed pork dumplings, chopsticks subtly akimbo in his left hand. He re-positions them with his right before successfully pinching a dumpling and delivering it home. He chews, and Sherlock waits._

_“My leg,” John says, mouth half full. After a swallow of gunpowder green tea, he continues. “Trapped under a mess of rubble. Compound came down around us thanks to an IED and I was trying to reach for my mate.” He rubs absentmindedly at the smooth wood of the chopstick with his thumb. His eyes rest on a ceramic pot of hot mustard on the table. “Couldn’t move too well but he was bleeding out…we had suspected sniper units were in the area. And. I tried to reach for my medic pack and then.” He shrugs his left shoulder, consciously or unconsciously Sherlock can’t be sure. John blinks and looks down at his plate._

_Sherlock nods, understanding._

_“He was twenty-four.” John takes another dumpling in his chopsticks. Something hard sits in his features for a moment, until he finally glances up at Sherlock to meet his eyes._

_Sherlock nods again, and says nothing. John Watson is a living, breathing, complicated human being that Sherlock instantly finds himself… needing._

 

*

 

_“What’s your theory?” John pushes his mobile back into his pocket after forwarding the images to three separate email accounts. “Good thing I managed a photo before it was painted over—”  
_

_“As ever, John, you see but you do not observe.”_

_“And what am I not observing, Your Grace?” They’re in the back of a cab, John perched behind the driver and Sherlock across from him, heading home to Baker Street, Sherlock’s brain humming along with new possibilities for the case, John’s brain humming along too, though doubtlessly ten times more slowly. Sherlock sighs.  
_

_“The message itself isn’t what’s important now—I concede it’s important for content, yes, because it will reveal motivations and a possible sequence of events—but more so it’s vital for breaking the code. It’s clear that the symbols come in pairs and are to be read sequentially, in order, as if one was reading a sentence. There are only 57 approximations of cryptology that allow for a such a simple construction such as this and namely one that requires an external reference point.”  
_

_It’s quiet for a moment before a wide-eyed John breathes out a soft ‘oh’._

_“Simple,” Sherlock allows himself a quick eyebrow raise and a glance out the window. He’s preening and bursting and he knows it._

_John leans forward conspiratorially, a smirk chasing the lines of his mouth._

_“Which one is it, then?”_

_“What?” Sherlock looks back to meet his eyes._

_“Which one of the 57 approximations?”_

_Sherlock leans back in his seat. “The right one.”_

_“You wanker.” John smiles at him, not a hint of derision kissing the lines of his face._

 

*

 

_14:29 [Sent]_

_Talk to man wearing red jacket selling hot nuts next to buskers under south end of Blackfriars bridge. Has information on possible sighting in Vauxhall. My contact will confirm later. Buy his nuts and look carefully at your change. SH_

 

_14:29 [Sent]_

_And don’t take this opportunity to confirm yourself an idiot by making a ridiculous sex joke. SH_

 

_14:31 [Received]_

_I don’t do that._

 

_14:31 [Sent]_

_I could sense your little brain trying to work something out and it was resolutely exhausting. SH_

 

_14:33 [Received]_

_Well this little brain remembered to order you the khao soi with extra crispy noodles and managed to find some lemon coconut ice. See you at home in 45?_

 

_14:34 [Sent]_

_Sooner. SH_

 

_14:34 [Draft]_

_I’m sorry_

 

_14:35 [Sent]_

_Thanks. SH_

 

*

 

 _“Look at us both,” she’d said. John didn’t say anything. John had stood there, and stood there, and stood there, and had said nothing. Like she wasn’t wrong._ Like she was right _. Sherlock stumbles into his cab back to Baker Street and wishes he were better at understanding these things. Give him a locked room murder, give him a crime with fifty possible solutions or fifteen hundred possible solutions or no possible solutions, give him an intellectual test of Olympic proportions and he could solve it within the hour. Give him this, and he’s not even sure how to think about it properly._

_John will be coming behind him in a cab, coming for him. Sherlock tightens his grasp on the door handle and peers out the window, London a familiar blur that does nothing to steady his off-rhythm pulse._

_“Look at us both,” she’d said. She was interesting, mentally. Definitely. A puzzle. A challenge. A fellow player in the game. Sherlock respected her ingenuity to get herself killed and then use it to her advantage. Sexually? She was completely boring. Easier to read than an open book._

_John, however. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t refute her. Why?_

_It would be easier if Mycroft’s version of life were true._

 

_*_

 

_Sherlock climbs the inn’s steps up to the room slowly, one at a time. He’s a bit buzzed, to be honest. He’d finished his drink and snuck four cigarettes out in the tidily landscaped garden and now he figures he’d better make amends before it’s too late and he’s abandoned on the moors exhibiting a possible hallucinogenic disorder and a burgeoning incapacity to handle this case like an adult, and not just any adult but a fucking genius, rather. Plus, he likes having John around._

_He likes John. They’re friends, after all._

_He opens the door. John is asleep. He eases it closed again and beats a retreat._

 

_*_

 

_Nothing, not any single thing that Sherlock has ever witnessed or will ever witness in his life, is worse than seeing John’s face in this moment. It takes every ounce of strength he can summon to keep his eyes open and fix them on nothing, far away, feigning staring into blank darkness. He’s dead and John is very much alive._

_Turns out he didn’t need the rubber ball under his armpit. His pulse seems to have stopped anyway._

 

_*_

 

 _A blur of John-images, John-smells, John-texts, John-sounds, John-textures, John-memories. All he has left._ For the time being _, he tries to remind himself._ It’s only two years. I’m coming back to you.

 

*

 

_His lip bleeds until it gives up. His back aches, pink and puffy scars mewling. John is sat across from him in a seedy little café fifteen streets away from Baker Street. Mary has gone to the loo, or to fetch a cab, or to call up for another order of falafel, or set up a fucking colony on fucking Mars and Sherlock plainly doesn’t know where she stepped off to and doesn’t care one way or the other. Sherlock tries to think of the name of the street they’re on but somehow finds that the way John is chewing on his bottom lip is preventing his brain from working. Sherlock came back from the dead hours ago and John is flesh and blood and broken._

_“Months.” John breaks the silence, starting determinedly at Sherlock’s folded hands. “Three, in fact.”_

_Sherlock tests the moment with a small nod. He waits._

_“Three months. For three months after you died, every single time I closed my eyes at night, I had a dream that never altered, Sherlock, not once.” John’s fist closes around air where it rests on the tabletop. Sherlock’s throat clenches. His heart beats weakly in his chest, his ribs throttling its efforts. Chained._

_“You’re up there. I’d run up the stairs to the rooftop, and you’d be gone. I go to the edge, look down, and there you are. On your side. Dead. Sprint down the stairs, and you’re gone. Back on the fucking roof.” John’s voice is muddy, buried in layers tucked close, painreliefsadnessragemaybesomethinglikehopepain indistinguishable. He looks up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Ninety dreams. All the same.”_

_“John, I—”_

_“You died in front of me one time, Sherlock. And ninety-one times I couldn’t save you.”_

_The blow to his nose that comes next almost feels good._

 

*

 

_John’s palm sweats in Sherlock’s own._

_“No no no you’ve made a complete cock up of the dip.”_

_“Well it’s not like you’re easy to dip, given the fact that you’re seventy metres tall and I’m only an average-sized man.”_

_“Ridiculous.”_

_“Hmm, yes, quite ridiculous that you’re at least, six feet what?”_

_“Rather that you consider yourself to be an average-sized man.”_

_“Watch it.” John squeezes Sherlock’s hand in his. “I’ve killed people in my day. Bigger than me too.”_

_“John, your feeble sense of humour is only going to prolong this dance lesson.”_

_“Maybe that’s what I’m aiming for.”_

_Suddenly, the sitting room in 221B Baker Street feels quite warm for a Tuesday evening in April. The curtains flutter in the balmy breeze from the open windows. London is humming with dusk’s approach._

_“More practice can’t hurt. I might as well take advantage of the opportunity to drop you on your arse.” He winks._

_John’s palm sweats in Sherlock’s own. Sherlock swallows down his heart._

 

_*_

 

_“I cannot believe—Christ. Bloody fucking buggering fuck fucking christ, Sherlock.” John’s litany of curses fights against the blurred buzz of helicopter blades whirring about their heads, the crackling of radio interchanges, the defeated composure of Mycroft’s face, the deafening rush of blood in Sherlock’s ears. “You know what this means. You’ve murdered one of the most powerful men in the country in front of the country, basically. Fuck, we’re fucked.”_

_“No—you’re safe now, you and Mary both.” Sherlock is yelling himself hoarse or possibly whispering or not saying anything at all; if John can’t hear him say these words the whole thing might never have happened._

_John’s face does something very complicated. “But it wasn’t supposed to be me and Mar—“ He chokes back his words, her name, a furrow between his eyes winding its way down to twist his mouth into a thin line. “You’re going to leave me again.”_

_“There’s nothing—”_

_“They’re going to make you leave.”_

_“John.” The helicopter is taking them back into London, into an unknown future for both men, but one that will surely separate them._ _Sherlock’s mouth is dry and his skin feels clammy but his head is clear when the puzzle pieces slot together and he reaches for John’s arm, a difficult thing to do with his wrists bound together in an improvised set of nylon cuffs. John’s eyes catch the light from the low interior spotlights, dark gems in a nightmare. “John, listen to me. There is nothing I will not do to ensure that whatever happens, you are going to be safe—”_

_“It’s not enough to be safe, is it. Not without you.”_

 

_*_

 

Sherlock closed the last door and left after turning on the lights in every classroom. It made the building glow.

 

*

 

He came back to the courtroom to meet the moment. He looked at the counsellor, and then looked at John, and breathed.

“Are you quite alright, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes. I’m prepared to give my answer.” 

“Go on then, please.”

It was so easy, in the end.

“It’s very simple actually, because it’s indefinable.”

John smiled up at him. Perfect, brave, beautiful John.

Sherlock felt whole.

“I love him. He’s everything that ever went right.”


	14. but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But in the end we somehow  
> We always end up without  
> Marks that don't allow  
> Us to reunite
> 
> I better feel, better see, better run
> 
> I better run  
> Because I don't know if we  
> Will make it through this one
> 
> Reunite ~ Isbells
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
>  [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/k6RHrv7gg14)

“State your name.”

“Sebastian Moran.”

“What is the alias you have been using these past eighteen months, Mr. Moran?”

“Doctor Benjamin Myers.”

“Do you have the requisite medical training to call yourself as a doctor, Mr. Moran?”

“Not beyond what I learned in the field, you might say. More people ought to try it.” Moran’s hair fell in a greasy swatch over his forehead, the dingy grey locks now overgrown with neglect. The thin-wired spectacles on his nose made his age fluctuate with the way a mood passed or lingered to arrange itself over his features. Lanky and worn-looking from his weeks being held at Her Majesty’s pleasure, he stiffly shifted his weight from foot to foot in the early hours of his first day giving testimony.

“Mr. Moran, the questions posed to you will be brief and asked for the purpose of confirming information, not to provide you an opportunity for ideological soliloquy. We’ve had too much of that in this trial already,” Mr. Simmons, the lead Crown Prosecutor, turned down the end of his sentence with a sigh. “Now. Janine Hawkins previously stated in her testimony that she is your niece. Is this correct?”

“Yes, as much as she wishes she weren’t.”

“Mr. Moran?”

“Janine Hawkins is my niece.”

“Did you break into flat number two-hundred-and-twenty-one B Baker Street some three months ago?

“I did.”

“For what reason did you break into the flat?”

Moran scratched the back of his head with a long-fingered hand. “Wanted to see if Mr. Sherlock Holmes was onto the baby ruse, didn’t I. Wouldn’t be doing my proper research otherwise. He knew perfectly well who I was and he watched me do it, thought he’d no idea _why_ I was doing it, obviously. He thinks himself clever. Typical pathetic toff.”

“That’s a sufficient response, thank you, Mr. Moran.” Mr. Simmons’ voice, a clipped staccato yet somehow mapped with weary tension, echoed into the quiet courtroom as he glanced down at his case notes. “What was your relationship to James Moriarty?”

“Met him nine years ago, worked very closely with him after his father passed. Learned everything he knew from his dad, that bastard. May God rest his soul, but for my part I hope he rots.”

“Your loyalties have changed, Mr. Moran?”

A long, slow drink from the ubiquitous glass of water and a disgustingly wet belch before the answer came. “Not in the least, Counsellor. He had me running the Sri Lankan operations, high level embezzlement schemes and the like. Came to London at his insistence a few years ago, did a little bomb work.” He winked, a slick-sour thing magnified in his spectacle’s lenses. “We liked our bombs.”

“Yes, well.” Mr. Simmons cleared his throat. “Your bomb-making days are over, Mr. Moran.”

“We’ll see.” Another long sip of water, which Moran swished in his mouth for a few moments before making an exaggerated show of swallowing.

Mr. Simmons nodded up to the Lord Chief Justice. “If it would please your Lord, I would like to play a short video clip to the court and enter it into evidence.”

The Lord Chief Justice nodded. “You may do so.”

Jim Moriary, three-metres-tall, loomed to life over their heads, his mocking _Miss Me?_ reverberating on repeat for a minute or two until he was stuffed back into digital bits at the click of a button.

“Did you create this masterpiece, Mr. Moran?”

“Do I detect sarcasm, Mr. Simmons?”

“On the contrary. Your digital prowess is admirable.” Eyes like daggers.

“Obtain an answer to the question, Mr. Simmons.” The Lord Chief Justice leaned back in his padded chair.

“Was this your work, Mr. Moran?”

“Yes.”

“Did Anna Georgina Robinson-Adams know about this?”

“She did, yes.”

“Before it was broadcast onto every television in the country over one year ago?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Did James Moriarty prompt you to broadcast the video?”

“No.”

“He did not.” Mr. Simmons cleared his throat.

“He did not.” _  
_

“Who prompted you to broadcast the video?”

“Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”

_________________________________________________________

“Sher—”

One of John’s knees was suddenly wedged between two bony kneecaps as Sherlock boxed him up against a brick wall behind some bins a few streets from the Old Bailey, cool palms already smoothing over the planes of John’s chest. Sherlock bent his head to press a kiss to the hinge where cheekbone met jaw.

“Apt choice.”

“Hm?”

“Cock Lane. _Really_.”

“The thought had occurred.” Kiss. Another wet bloom across John’s throat. Kiss. “Well, cock. Thoughts. Thoughts about your cock. Many thoughts.” Sherlock dropped an octave. “ _Naughty_ thoughts.”

“Jesus Christ.” John stole a kiss from the pink pucker of lips that wandered down the side of his neck. “It’s barely eight-thirty in the morning.”

“Which means—” and a _press_ into hips, fingers pushing away cotton to find soft, warm skin.

“—which means you’ve to continue the—rest of—of—of—( _oh god don’t stop_ )—as a witness this—m-mo—today—( _god)—_ so _no—funny—business._ ” John breathed hot into the curl of Sherlock’s ear as he let his forehead drop onto an exquisitely tailored shoulder. The sun had risen over what was barely day two of Sherlock’s scheduled turn as star witness, and frankly John just wanted the whole mess over and done, _two tickets for Ibiza, no we won’t be returning for a whole fucking year, thank you_. But of course, life loved to kick John Watson repeatedly in the bollocks.

Speaking of bollocks.

“Sherlock!”

“Oh, all right.” Sherlock sighed good-naturedly, feigning a strop. “Can never resist a good snog now that I’ve a chance.” He rubbed a thumb over his bottom lip and intertwined the fingers of his other hand with John’s.

“What, so you can catalogue them for your bloody blog?”

Sherlock smiled, a soft, fleeting thing. “No, it’s.” He swallowed. “I never thought I’d have more than one go.”

“You can have as many go’s as you want.”

“Lucky me.” Sherlock’s smile faded further after a pause, eyes searching John’s, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth again. “Sure you’re ready?”

“Dunno.” John pressed another kiss to the corner of where Sherlock’s top and bottom lip curved together. “You going to be there?” Whispered close.

“Might be.” A quick quirk of that mouth.

“Then I’m ready.” The next kiss was a promise. “Also.” Another promise. “Sod suffering through sodding Moran’s sodding testimony. Fancy a go?”

“I know just the setting.”

“Course you do.”

“Barts or St. Sepulchre’s?”

“For a shag? Dear god, Sherlock.”

“There’s my answer.”

Kissing never killed anyone, as far as John knew. It was loneliness and grief and anger that did, and sometimes things like accidents, sometimes lies and deceit, and sometimes fate. A woman he’d tried to love was buried under melting snow and a baby that had never existed was a wisp of thought in the ether of the universe. While he still struggled with everything that had happened in the past few months, there was nothing he could do to change either of those things now. It would be up to him to decide what came next. The pebble of the thought lodged itself in his mind as he walked hand in hand with Sherlock, breathing, breathing, breathing.

************

Afternoon. John’s stomach protested against the hasty sausage roll he’d scarfed down and watered with a cup of tea post-shag. A greasy, milky stomach and a too-hot, too-close packed courtroom had him feeling on edge. Sherlock was in the witness box again. John’s thighs felt sore.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Moran stated that your brother knew about Mr. James Moriarty’s ‘miss me’ performance, and in fact prompted him to broadcast the clip widely. Is this a true fact?”

“Hardly.”

“Please elaborate, Mr. Holmes.”

“It is not a true fact.”

Mr. Simmons was fighting a losing battle. He gave a rather despondent roll of his head to the side and reached for a remote perched at the end of the counsellor’s table, then punched on a button with his thumb.

“Mr. Holmes, please state the legal name of the deceased person, alias Mary Watson, alias Mary Morstan, depicted in the photograph projected there.” Mr. Simmons gestured at the wall with the remote as Ms. Porter simultaneously looked down to scratch something quickly with a posh biro on her notepad.

“Anna Georgina Robinson-Adams.”

Bleached blond, blank smile. Blue eyes. Memories. Her photo on file from the surgery, from her plastic badge that John had once found left in a desk drawer at his office. Never did ask about that, did he. She loomed over the courtroom, her pixelated grin bleached out against the plain beige wall, and John fixed his gaze back on Sherlock.

“Where was she was born?”

“America.”

“Precisely where in America?”

“I wasn’t aware I was to simply read her file out loud for you—”

“Answer the question, Mr. Holmes. And I’ll ask you to refrain from inappropriate responses, including the one you have just uttered, which are becoming disappointingly customary.” The Lord Chief Justice adjusted his wig and Mycroft cleared his throat. John mentally added the metaphorical umbrella tap, metaphorically dulled against the carpeted floor.

“Apologies.” Sherlock’s tone was clipped to match his pseudo-smile. “She was born in New England: Cambridge, Massachusetts. No siblings. Her mother was a software engineer at Harvard, her father in private securities. They died in a house fire in 1981. No criminal investigation. Faulty wiring. Finances to be expected, small social circle. She lived with an elderly aunt from 1981 until 1994 when said aunt died in a car accident, then lived with a series of boyfriends. Married one, hence the Adams. Divorced one year later. Attended various universities, dropped out due to….” Sherlock’s voice buzzed, the row rumble a comforting drone in John’s ear.

_She really was an orphan_

_The one truth_

_She lied about everything, but not that_

_Orphan’s lot, she’d said, from the spot where I’d sat eating eggs_

_Completely blind to what love was, all those years ago  
_

“When did she arrive in the UK?”

“Originally believed to be 2008, possibly as early as 2006. She left the CIA in late 2005 and went off the grid for a number of months. Could’ve been a year.”

“Is this undetermined?”

“She was changing her alias rapidly during this time after deciding to go freelance. Naturally, she considerably more cautious in the early days.”

John’s heartbeat was a cascade behind his ribs.

Sherlock kept talking, laying Mary – Anna – bare. Minutes passed and rolled together into over an hour, the clock ticking labouriously under the watchful eyes of a dead woman.

“…and that constitutes the majority of cases outlined on the A.G.R.A. memory stick.” Sherlock reached for his glass and took a long swallow. Glass on wood. A cough. The tick of the bloody clock. John scratched the inside of his wrist. “Further details regarding the memory stick have been entered into evidence via court documents. There’s no need for me to elaborate.”

“Very well, Mr. Holmes. Let me be the first to congratulate you on successfully avoiding a reprimanding on the part of myself or Lord Chief Justice in the last…” – a quick check of a wristwatch – “…four minutes.”

“I kindly decline your congratulations, Counsellor. Highly inappropriate.”

“Trying to make amends, Mr. Holmes.”

“Next. Question.” Again, clipped tone. Tension.

John couldn’t catch Sherlock’s eye.

“Did you threaten Philip Cather that an unnamed woman, someone in security services, would testify against him for allegedly engaging in negotiations regarding a bribe and the promised performance of sexual favours in return for classified files?” _  
_

“Threaten is a strong word.”

“Mr. Holmes.”

“I gave him a forcefully worded warning.”

“The implication being that this woman’s testimony would lead to a serious prison sentence for Mr. Brown.”

“Yes.”

“Did you imply that this woman was Anna Robinson-Adams?”

“Not explicitly.”

“Robinson-Adams was deceased at the time you made this threat to Mr. Brown.”

“Yes.”

John turned to glance at Mycroft, who was sitting pale and pinched next to his counsellors. Even his customary three-piece suit looked depressed. Granted, the British Government was used to tribulations on an ongoing basis, mostly those involving errant little brothers and ex-army doctors with a penchant for illegal firearms, but it wasn’t used to trials, and this trial was taking its toll.

His eyes travelled to Sherlock’s parents, tucked together up in the public gallery near that dreadful reporter from the Daily Mail. Drained, they watched their two sons be strongarmed by fate and the mess of what John’s grief had brought them all.

John felt his pulse continue to thump beneath the skin of his wrists and in the spaces between his ribs.

Sherlock seemed to notice John noticing Mycroft and cleared his throat.

“She was desperate. And desperate people make mistakes.”

“To what type of mistakes are you referring, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock turned his head to look at John again, his mouth set into a line, eyes hard.

A look that said: _this is happening for the right reasons_.

A look that said: _remember, John, I couldn’t stop it._

A look that said: _I wanted to._

A look that said: _remember, carefully._

“She made the mistake of not coming to me first.”

“Please elaborate, Mr. Holmes.”

“She feigned ignorance when we first met in London some two years ago. She must have recognised me after our encounter in Paris: I’d neutralised her target and dispatched him before she’d managed to provide proof of death for her masters. The encounter was brief. We did not speak to each other, nor did we exchange any information. She continued on her way, I continued on mine. Some time passed; I returned to London to find she had returned as well. After she was placed with John Watson, she made the critical mistake of not getting pregnant. The deal was to—”

A jolt.

“Excuse the interruption, Mr. Holmes, but please clarify what you mean by ‘placed’.”

“Go on, I wouldn’t mind some clarification, _Mr. Holmes_.” John’s voice burst from his chest, louder than he’d expected, a sharp echo in the quiet courtroom. His palms sweated patterns onto the knees of his trousers. _  
_

Sherlock looked down to John as his brow knitted, two creases an indentation between piercing eyes. “It’s obvious.”

“Obvious?” John laughed and pushed himself to standing out of his seat. A rush of blood thudded in his ears and he felt calm and not calm as he crossed his hands and then instead his arms, laced them across his chest. He was faintly aware of murmurs from the public gallery, attempts at intervening from both Mr. Simmons and Ms. Porter, _highly irregular_ , _stop this at once,_ an exasperated groan from the Lord Chief Justice, and the subtle wheeze of Mycroft’s indigestion from the defendant’s box, but his eyes were locked to Sherlock’s. John swallowed, rough and dry. “ _Obvious_. That’s rich. Not everyone is a bloody genius.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, considered, and slowly rose from his chair to lean forward, placed his palms flat on the wooden barrier in front of him. “She was only with you,” words like nails, consonants biting, low and caustic in John’s ears, “because it was her _job._ " _  
_

The words landed.

Rows of blurred faces as John marched out of the courtroom swam in circles before his eyes, casting aspersions, prodding and pushing him toward and through the heavy oak twin doors, the slam shut a punctuation on “ _a short recess, please!_ ” and something that couldn’t be undone.

Silence, and John’s heart was racing.

He let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding and paused in the marble entrance hall to dig into his pocket for his mobile. The screen blinked shadows into his hand as he read the text message.

**_You know where. Fifteen minutes_ ** _._

“John!” David was sat on a bench just down the hall outside the gents’, his legs linked at their ankles and hands tucked under his arse, eyes pinched with tension and insomnia as he scrambled to his feet and half-jogged over to where John was standing. “Hey. Sorry. D’you have a cigarette? It’s just—I’m up next, seeing as I didn’t finish before and all that, and I’m a fucking bundle.”

“Sorry mate, got to go.” John said bluntly without looking at his ex-wife’s ex-lover and turned, shoving his mobile back into his pocket as he silently cursed himself for waiting even this long. His footsteps squeaked against the overly-polished floor as he tried to hurry away.

_Fourteen minutes now, likely, fuck_

“I need some air. I’ll join you.” David’s steps soon matched John’s, a duet of squeaks as they made their way to and through the security entrance out onto the pavement. Compared to the tomb of the courtroom, London was thunderously loud and sundrenched and John glanced down at his wristwatch. Twelve minutes now. David see-sawed next to John with hands in pockets and twisted his head, looking one way, then another, hesitant, as John abruptly started to march toward King Edward Street.

“So do y’know where I could get some round here? I’m just—” _  
_

“Fucking hell, David, I have to go—” _  
_

“Look, wait.” David pulled at his elbow, suddenly serious. “John. I just wanted to say. I’m—it was never personal with Mary. Anna. With everything. It’s not personal.” He dug his hand out from his pocket, outstretched, an offering.

“Mm…kay.” John shook it, once, twice, as David clapped him on his other arm. “Right.”

“Better be off.” David let their hands drop down empty between them. “I’ve got to find a pack before I burst. My best to you, John,” he squinted into the watery sunshine with a lopsided grin.

“Sure, yeah. Same.” John watched the back of David’s head blend into the faceless crowds for approximately four seconds, then burst into a run.

************

Postman’s Park. Lines of tablets. Blue and white.

_Mary Rogers._

_Stewardess of the Stella. Mar. 30. 1899._

_Self Sacrificed by Giving Up Her Life Belt and Voluntarily Going Down in the Sinking Ship._

John absently traced a finger over the blue letters as he caught his breath, then snatched the tiny note pasted to the bottom right corner of the placard. His hands were steady as he read the handwritten message.

_**BC 401** _

_**8744091** _

He folded it in half, and in half again, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Three minutes.

_________________________________________________________

“John Watson.”

“Anyone?”

“That Sherlock is quite dishy, wouldn’t you agree Agatha? Too bad he’s—”

“Christ, it’s been nearly half an hour, we were due to resume by now…”

“John Watson. The small, sandy-haired bloke. He was the one married to the assassin woman.”

“Expect they’re off having a tug in the loos?”

The public gallery was a wild murmur of hearsay whispers that seeped down into the defendant dock and echoed into the shells of Mycroft’s ears. He gathered the hem of his cuffs back and forth into little accordion patterns between his fingers, a nervous habit he’d acquired some time ago and hadn’t had the heart yet to claim responsibility. His chief counsellor, Ms. Porter, ran one hand through her hair beneath her wig as she glanced at the watch tethered around the other thin wrist and sighed.

“Nothing, Mr. Holmes?”

“Unfortunately, nothing.” Mycroft let his hand drop to the crisply-pressed knee of his trousers. “You know the perils of baby brothers: impertinence. Subsidies. The occasional explosion.”

“You are close to spending the foreseeable future in a prison cell.” She clasped her hands together in her lap, eyes narrowed.

“I apologise if you’ve mistaken my comment for humour, Ms. Porter.” Mycroft cleared his throat in his usual manner that meant he had indulged in conversation long enough. “Perhaps we ought to discuss our options.” _  
_

_________________________________________________________

John settled as well as he could into a jog, his hips stiff after being sat so long on a courtroom wooden bench with a nary a god-awful cushion to ease his arse. _Nearly fifty,_ John sighed as he passed by a mum with pram buying a bouquet of flowers to tuck under her arm. The woman gave him an inviting once-over as she burrowed away her orangey parrot tulips under some cellophane. _Well, not quite,_ came the thought as John threw in a little bum wiggle for good measure. Rain clouds fought their way through the eager early springtime sun, his jacket heavy and warm on his shoulders. His feet pounded the pavement, tie brushed back over his shoulder, and he felt his heart pump red steel blood, each beat proof of his purpose. _  
_

His mobile buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to accept the call.

“It’s me.”

“Do you realise what you’ve done?”

“Saved your life?”

“Saved yours, you mean.”

“That happened a long time ago.”

John was still running. The river eased into view ahead of him and he turned slightly to the right.

“You didn’t sign your text.” _  
_

“Bigger fish to fry.”

John smiled at that and subconsciously picked up his pace, his lungs pummeling the ring of his ribs. A flock of tourists gaped at their multicoloured maps as he passed by. One tried to snap a photo: Tower Bridge, a guardsman, a man running against the wind, all passing relics of a holiday half-remembered. What did it matter. There were other, more important things to remember. John couldn’t stop grinning.

“All right then. What are we doing here?”

“Here be dragons. Now run.”

John rang off. Only another 300 metres. He could already see the boat.

_________________________________________________________

 

The courtroom mewled back to life under the watchful eye of the blasted, reliable clock.

“I decline to answer this question.”

“Sorry?”

“I’d like to exercise my right to remain silent. I invoke the right against self-incrimination.”

“You must answer the question, Mr. Holmes.”

“No, I’m afraid I must not.”

“Mycroft Holmes, is it your express wish to refuse to answer this specific question under your own free will and not with undue pressure or coercion from a third party?”

“It is.”

 _“_ No further questions at this time, My Lord.”

_________________________________________________________

John’s blood was burning as he crossed the final section of the path and sprinted down the narrow walkway, pushing past throngs of waiting commuters and confused visitors. A slightly over-crowded Thames Clipper was pulling up to Blackfriars Millennium pier and another pair of tourist boats blocked his view for a few moments before John saw the white and silver Sealine S450 idling slightly further along the docking, just barely off from the walkway, the registration tag **BC 401** clearly visible in cerulean blue. He could see the dark outline of a figure moving about the boat as the cry of “ _Oi, sir, no hired boats allowed here! Get that boat away! MBNA clippers only!_ ” met the backs of his ears, and so sped up his pace. Heart hammering, he raced to finish the last few metres and hastily pulled the folded slip of paper from his pocket in time with his footfalls.

**8744091**

Thumbs shaking too much to properly type after coming to a full stop, John deleted and resent the text. Air was coming out his lungs and wouldn’t go back in.

A buzzy _chime_ and the sight of a rumbled-warm Belstaff flung over the side of the leather seating in view along the edge of the boat. A half empty packet of cigarettes crumpled on the ledge, and then, when stepped closer, there was the other half lined up in unison like soldiers, all barely smoked. The filters recently kissed. Ash in small tombstones.

John jumped on board the deck of the boat and instantly felt his knees go wobbly.

“Where's your sea legs, John?” A familiar voice in an unfamiliar setting.

_Who – wait_

_Not the only one with lots of coats_

Black spots swam through his vision like malevolent fish, spinning, _when did he start spinning_ ,

he wonders behind cotton cloud thoughts,

his heart is leaving his body,

pushing its way out through his lungs,

shredded blood muscle blood,

a heaving heavy hot feeling in his stomach,

shaking sweat,

salt sweat,

he was running,

run,

run,

RUN

John twisted in time to see Sherlock leap onto the boat deck behind him.

The world went sideways.

John’s lead bones.

 _Too late_ , as he collapsed at Sherlock’s feet.

Dark, ink-black fish swimming before his eyes. Blink. Spin. Blood beating. **  
**

“What have you given him!” **  
**

Sherlock’s voice. Fear.

“A handshake,” David replied, as he started the motor on the boat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Postman's Park is a lovely little retreat against the heat and people and such in the City. It is also home to the Memorial to Heroic Self-Sacrifice, where people are commemorated for giving their lives in order to save others. Mary Roger's tablet is in full view for passersby and picnickers. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	15. storming out to play through the broken dyke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wake up darling  
> Lets get out there and  
> Time for some action  
> Wake up baby – its time for  
> A new direction
> 
> Suffering is the art of it  
> Suffering is the best part of it  
> Suffering is the art of love
> 
> It’s time for something else  
> Open skies open your eyes and  
> Rain on your latest parade
> 
> Suffering is the Art of Love ~ Fink
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
> [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/YI7SznOfjr8)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for descriptions of injury.

And London exploded: Sherlock's vision slid, a sudden blur, twisted into and over itself, became an immediate cacophony of multicoloured sounds and scents as the Sealine swept past the crowded MBNA boat and out into the thoroughfare heart of the river. Late-afternoon. Slanting cloudy sunlight over bridges and banks clamouring with tourists. Three men aboard a £300,000 speedboat. Plan. No plan. Sherlock blinked. Waves. Rocking seatide stinking shaking river. Noxious water, heartbeat sick, spinning sunlight. John, slumped unconscious and curled onto his left side at Sherlock’s feet, rolled violently back against the brown leather seats as David revved the motor, which sputtered and hummed with exertion as they raced the down the Thames.

Sherlock blinked. And again.

Sheer, utter panic.

_JOHN JOHN JOHN JOHN JOHN BREATHING BREATHING BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING IS HE BREATHING DON'T TAKE HIM FROM ME DON'T TAKE HIM FROM ME DON'T TAKE HIM FROM ME I CAN'T LOSE HIM NOT NOW I CAN'T LOSE HIM I CAN'T I CAN'T PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NONO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO_

_N       O_

Sherlock fell to his knees and threw himself down over John’s crumpled beloved body: pressed his ear to the broken line of John’s mouth, first two fingers pushed deeply against a hidden carotid, his other hand over the shrunken curve of chest beneath the black jacket. Pulled up John’s eyelid on his right, then left eye. Loosened the patterned tie as gently as he could, pushed away the scratched Tag Heuer to press at John's wrist. Ribs weakly pushed up against a flat palm, shaking. Clammy wet.

Fragile fledgling breaths.

But.

Breathing.

“ _WHAT DID YOU DO_ _!_ ” Sherlock roared up and into the air at the back of David’s head. Knees digging into the water-resistant carpeting on the boat deck at John’s side, he grabbed at curled-up hands, touched parted lips. “ _DAVID_!”

David shrugged a shoulder as he barely cocked his head to shout back, “Effective, innit.” He redirected and angled the boat to slip by a passing CityCruises packed with baseball-cap-and-backpack-wearing tourists. No one seemed to notice the slight man in the back of the Sealine, completely unconscious, limp like a discarded doll dropped on his side. How would they? Tinted windows and the cabin's protective overhang blocked most of the view. Raw early spring air bit at Sherlock's cheeks as the boat continued to gather speed, swirls of wind nipping bitterly at his skin exposed beneath his scarf and above his unbuttoned collar. He tore off the blue cashmere and shoved it between the back of John's head and the white plastic base of the seats, nestling him in the corner as far away from David as possible.

“ _John John John please no, no no no John wake up wake up---_ " Close, fast whispers were met with no response. Every muscle in Sherlock's body vibrated in agony. John was motionless. Surging river beneath the boat carried them all together away.

Millennium Bridge, London Bridge, then the familiar outlines of the HMS Belfast and Tower Bridge soared into the sky, cutting shadows across the boat's path as Sherlock knelt haphazardly beside John. John. John. John. John, whose limbs were askew. John, whose head rolled back and forth, Sherlock's John, John, his love, his partner, John, whose _head rolled back and forth_ and slammed, bashed, thudded against the fucking plastic, plastic beneath the seats, _slammed against the fucking plastic beneath the seats with every wave_ , every crest of wave, every bounce of the boat on the cresting waves, in the boat's wake against John, John's precious head, John's perfect head, _John John John John John_

_Mobile_

_Pocket_

_Medical_

_Help_

_Mobile_

_Help_

_Help_

_NOW_

_John_

Seemingly in moments they cleared beneath Tower Bridge. Tourists. Photographs. A splattering sting of raindrops clamoured against the boat's small windows as David pressed on.

_Sherlock_

_Get out your mobile_

_Phone_

_Get your phone out of your pocket_

_Call Mycroft_

_Call_

_Call_

Sherlock's hands refused. Brain fought body to do anything other than touch John, feel for his shallow aching breath, urge the beating of his hidden heart. He sniffed John’s right palm.

Pineapple.

“Ethyl butyrate?!” Sherlock screamed again at David, as words tumbled out over themselves on the tip of his tongue, teeth clacking, trying to swallow down nothing, dry rough, heartbeat pounding, John’s heartbeat still under his hand, his mind racing as he looked down, cataloguing and classifying as he mumbled, "Ethyl butyrate--ethyl--it's a s-solvent, irritant, hazardous, processed through skin, nose-skin-throat burning, applied concentration in high enough levels make you pass out—“

“—conveniently processed faster in his system because he had been—“

“—running.” Sherlock felt another giddy-sweat-sick lurch of panic as, for the first time, he spotted a large metal canister tucked into the luxuriously cushioned seating across from where he was crouched above John. "Ethyl butyrate. _Flammable liquid_. Insoluble," he murmured. With a hand wrapped around the back of John’s head, caressing, protecting him from hitting back against the seats, Sherlock scanned through the rest of the Sealine in seconds. An additional seven canisters marked _EB_ were tucked beneath, in and around the seats; four bright blue nylon ropes spooled coiled into figure-eights, their ends tied to metal cleats along the gunwale on the stern and along the sides; a black gun case sat on the top shelf above the boat's controls panel. The case was unlocked. Empty.

THINK

As he held John, the duplicate Belstaff slid onto the deck through small open space between the two seating areas in the stern. A single pause, and then a sudden gust of wind came to claim the decoy. Sherlock watched as it drowned helplessly in the Thames.

"How. How did you know about the boat." His voice shook. Two fingers still pressed against John's pulse. An unmistakable outline beneath David's shirt of a gun tucked between skin and waistband, further exposed when his jacket blew back in the wind.

"I know a lot of things, Sherlock." Around another CityCruises boat and then behind a clipper. The boat slowed only slightly as David recalculated and then sped faster around the second. Sherlock couldn't think, couldn't think, couldn't, he was trying to think, thinking, couldn't------John in his arms, John------

"I know things like....how to cut up a beast." David nodded cheerfully at a passing guided tour. All's well - nothing to see here!, he exuded at the small crowd. "If you're looking for examples of _things_ I know."

A shot though clouds into his brain. A memory, flung up fluorescent, ripped from the dungeons of the mind palace.

" _What_."

He held the memory up for inspection, dissected, flayed it thin. It couldn't be. Not possibly.

"Remember, Sherlock? When he begged you?"

"How--"

"He was _innocent_." David's words cut through the noisy tumult of buses honking from the shoreline.

"How can you possibly know--"

"My brother. Stationed in Belarus. Got into a mess and you left him to die."

"Your brother--that was _your brother_ \--he--that wasn't my problem!"

"Well, funny enough, your brother is mine."

"Mycroft had nothing to do with that."

"Ohh but he did." David blew out an exaggerated sigh. "That brother of yours has had a lot to do with a lot of things. So did our best mate there."

A look down to John: predator and prey. Sherlock in the middle.

 

_________________________________________________________

 

Mycroft crossed his legs beneath the sturdy oak table as crossed his hands on top of it and fretted. Sherlock and John had been missing for the better part of an hour and although, yes, he'd acquiesced early on, this wasn't remotely unusual for them by a wide margin on an average day. However, obviously it was not an average day. On an average day he wasn't at the Old Bailey, sat next to a middle-aged constable with a body odour problem, and formally charged with treason whilst facing a potentially life-long prison sentence, for christssakes. The courtroom was slowly bleeding out weary spectators growing bored from the long delay and Mycroft realised to his dismay that he was actually sweating, a bit.

"Mycroft," leaned in his chief counsellor Ms. Porter from her seat beside him, "we ought to continue. I've requested that the Lord Chief Justice review the pertinent information regarding our options to proceed."

"Yes, we ought to, and I realise I had said as much. But now I feel we can't so we won't."

"Mycroft."

Mycroft pinned her with a look. "My brother and his partner are missing after staging an overtly false row so they could escape the confines of this courtroom. I understand that their...intimate life is quite a, shall we say, _priority_ for them at this point, but as apparently they're not currently lodged in a toilet cubicle somewhere, my brother is likely to have considerably miscalculated whatever scheme it was he'd concocted and now it's all turned terrifically wrong, as usual, and John, as usual, dammit, is likely to have just _gone along with it_ \--"

"Mycroft, we have a team out. Baker Street. The bolt holes--all the known ones." She added before Mycroft could again interject. "The safe house, John and Anna's old flat. We'll find them."

"We won't. They'll have planned." He leaned back in his chair, defeated.

"Then they'll have planned together." She tried to give him a reassuring look as she tapped her knuckles twice against the swirls of grained wood. Cynthia Porter was nothing if not undoubtedly determined. "They're in it together."

"Aren't they always," Mycroft sighed, familiar lines worried into forehead.

 

_________________________________________________________

 

Canary Wharf Pier materialised as if in a remembered dream. Blurred as if submerged, shining steel and concrete reflected in the Sealine's pristinely white bow. Sherlock's thoughts raced.

_Keep him talking don't talk to him don't talk to him wait keep him talking but don't talk to him John needs medical attention help god help what do I do think fucking think what if he doesn't wake up don't think about that what is the half life of ethyl butyrate check his pupil dilation fuck you David fuck you fuck you fuck you should I overtake him take the boat keep him distracted talk to him talk to him don't wait keep him talking don't wait don't wait call Mycroft call Mycroft is in fucking prison at the moment get out your phone call 999 call 999 call 999 call 999_

"Shut up, I can't understand you," David shouted into a sleek black mobile held up to his ear by a cocked shoulder, one hand steering the boat, the other feeling at his back. The gun. "No. I said I got them on the boat."

Sherlock forced his focus onto the fingers wrapped around John's wrist. Pulse slightly erratic.

He -- they -- had nothing. No weapons. No defence. No way for the two of them to communicate.

To erase anything left unsaid by saying it. Not now, before it was too late.

_Perish the thought_

_Do something_

_DO SOMETHING_

_You have killed a man for less_

Sherlock's re-tucked his scarf beneath John's jaw and neck. His hand was battered between skull and seat as John's full weight rolled back again...again... _again...again...again_ to crush bone and flesh and Sherlock would have gladly broken his own fingers, his own body, and Sherlock worked to get his mobile out of his pocket with bruised fingers, numb fingers, blue panic behind his eyes colouring surging bile in his stomach, John should be semiconscious by now, John should--

John's eyelashes fluttered as his mouth unbuttoned, just a bit, further, a bit. Breathing. Closed again. Sherlock studied John's throat working. Swallowing? Is he trying to swallow? Stopped. Breathing through his nose. Inadequate. Irritated crimson-raw skin. His mouth opened again, automatic.

"John."

Nothing.

"I love you." Sherlock whispered the words into the helix of John's ear, again against the gasping valley of his lips. "I have always, always."

"Hhh," John tried. Closed eyes.

THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK

"Vatican cameos, John." Sherlock tried to keep the shake out of his voice.

" _NO_. I'll signal you when it's time." David rang off and sped up the boat, tearing them further and further from the sacred heart of London.

_Act_

_Act now_

_Now_

_Anything_

_Save the life_

_His life_

_Our life_

 

"David!" Rushing windy torment in his ears, Sherlock pressed a firm kiss to John's temple and finally stood, _999 in his palm, ready, almost ready, this is the best I can think of, he'll see, he'll see it,_ tucking his mobile visibly into the palm of his hand as he gathered his sea legs. " _David_!" He tried again, and crossed the short distance over to the captain's chair where David was stood. Through clenched jaw he pleaded, "Have me. Anything. _What do you want_."

"For you to listen, for once." David, for the first time since they'd began this journey, looked him dead in the eyes. Hit for hit. Then his gaze shifted. "And get rid of your phone."

"Done."

Soundlessly sinking into the frothy wake behind the boat, it went to its grave without complaint.

 

_________________________________________________________

 

"Is that correct, Mr. Holmes?"

"I can assure you, Lord Chief Justice. I'll continue."

Mycroft looked down to Ms. Porter, who gave him an unceremonious nod. The courtroom was again bustling with the return of proceedings after the unexpected hiatus; now the public gallery was nearly full to bursting under the watchful eye of the damned ticking clock. Moran was absent, reportedly feeling ill, and several members of the press were posted outside the heavy entrance doors sending in their bits and bites of film and sound to make the evening's newshours. Ms. Porter informed Mycroft that David had sent along a message he'd been delayed coming back from the cigarette shop on the edge of Leadenhall Market, so The British Government was selected to continue in his stead.

Subconsciously Mycroft felt for the silent mobile in his pocket, then glanced at the watch attached with the graduated Albert chain to his patterned waistcoat.

'We have people out looking' was no reassurance. Something was wrong -- not just wrong, very wrong -- and Mycroft knew better than to know that it wasn't, which of course both agonised and infuriated him to no end. It was one thing for his little brother to customarily challenge the parameters of his expectations on a regular basis when it came to nuclear codes or wearing clothes; it was quite another to actually _go_ missing after staging going missing.

They had come too close to playing that game before.

A familiar, husky voice broke through Mycroft's reverie. Michael Simmons, lead Crown Prosecutor, crossed his arms over his chest.

"Did you prompt Mr. Sebastian Moran to broadcast the 'Miss Me' video of Mr. James Moriarty?"

"No."

"Do you adamantly deny his claim that you did?"

"Of course, yes."

"Mr. Holmes, do you confirm that you knew Anna Georgina Robinson-Adams, alias Mary Morstan, was romantically involved with John Watson prior to your brother's return to London?"

"I do. I did."

"How did you come to know this information?"

"One of my teams is assigned to keep track of former agents and their movements post-employment, as well as all of their known aliases and placements. We had a file on her, naturally, and I was routinely briefed on any unusual activities undertaken by any and all of them."

"Yet you did not share this information with your brother," Simmons rejoined.

"Unfortunately the nature of my work does not allow for such proclivities." Mycroft reached for his small glass of water. "Much of the information that I am privy to is not appropriate for dissemination, especially not to my brother who, as I'm sure you're aware, regularly works with more dubious characters." He took a long drink and hoped no one would notice the slight twitch in his left hand. "There were many former agents under the umbrella, not least Anna Robinson-Adams, that were in London at that time. We have an obligation to protect them. At least to a degree."

"And you protected Robinson-Adams for an entire year in an established safe house, is that correct? From the previous January to this past January?"

"Thereabouts. Yes, both Robinson-Adams and John Watson."

"Robinson-Adams stayed full-time at the safe house during the final month of her presumed pregnancy, correct?"

"That's correct."

"Were you aware that her pregnancy was false?" Simmons raised both eyebrows.

"I was not."

"What led you to believe the pregnancy was real?"

"Previous encounters with Mary--with Anna--prior to the time in the safe house, as well as reports provided to me by my staff which were later determined to have been falsified."

"Who falsified these reports?"

"I believe Robinson-Adams herself." Usually pristine under pressure, Mycroft felt the fabric beneath his arms sticking to his skin. It wasn't that he wasn't used to sweating -- he was resolutely faithful to his morning 8k -- but he wasn't entirely used to it under these circumstances. He was usually the one shining the spotlight on someone else, not standing under its isolated glow himself.

"This pregnancy was the mechanism through which Ms. Robinson-Adams and Mr. Sebastian Moran met and later conspired, to the best of your knowledge?"

"Yes." Temples slightly damp. Mycroft swallowed.

A loud cough from the public gallery preceded the unmistakable rustle of a lozenge wrapper, then the creak of a seat, followed by the squeaky shutting of the exit door.

After a beat, Mr. Simmons continued. "Were you aware of her past assignments as an assassin?"

"Only those which fell under our jurisdiction as well as a few which she had completed for the CIA over the course of her prior employment."

"And her...freelance assignments?"

"Hardly."

"Excuse me?"

"No. Clearly, I was not."

"Were other people aware of her history?"

"I believe some, yes."

"Was Mr. James Moriarty?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Sebastian Moran?"

"Yes."

"Charles Augustus Magnussen?"

"Yes."

Mycroft felt his mobile buzz twice in his pocket.

"Did any of these people report her whereabouts to Interpol, Mr. Holmes?"

"No."

"She was wanted by law enforcement... _internationally_ , were you aware of that?"

"Gradually I was made aware of that, yes."

"Did you make an attempt to protect Anna Robinson-Adams from any fallout regarding her previous assignments?"

Ms. Porter interjected, "My learned friend, Lord Chief Justice, keeps alluding to events with terminology that demands additional clarification. 'Fallout' is hardly legally precise."

"Please clarify your choice of words, Mr. Simmons." The Chief Justice rubbed at his nose before pulling an elaborately embroidered blue and white handkerchief out of a pocket that had been buried within his robe.

"Apologies. Mr. Holmes, did you make an attempt to protect Robinson-Adams from any consequences, including but not limited to blackmail, threats to physical or psychological well-being, personal injury, financial damages, et cetera..."

"I tried to protect her from each of those consequences, yes, as I would have done with all of my former agents." Mycroft again reached for his water glass.

"How would you have done this?"

Seven deliberate ticks of the clock measured Mycroft's slow swallow of the tepid water. "By limiting exposure of her true identity and history to additional parties until it became absolutely necessary."

"In doing so, you put the lives of several people at risk, not least those of your brother and his partner."

"I would disagree."

"Did you conspire with her on the tarmac on the day that your brother was to be exiled on a mission to Eastern Europe, widely understood within security services circles to be considered as a punishment for the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen?"

Mycroft waited, measuring. "I did not."

"You were allegedly seen talking with her. Several of your staff have mentioned it in their sworn statements."

"She spoke to me about other matters."

"What were those other matters?"

"She...thanked me for the use of the safe house. She knew she was a high impact target due to her prior associations."

"Were you aware at that time that she had been deliberately placed with John Watson to gather information on himself and on Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes."

"But you were not aware of who originally had placed her with John Watson?"

"No, I was not."

"It was not you."

"No. It wasn't." Mycroft met Mr. Simmon's glare with one of his own. "Irrespective of what my brother might say, I could and would never have done that to him." He finally set down the glass. "Ever."

 

_________________________________________________________

 

John moaned twice more. _At least he's on his left side, not his healing shoulder, we've just, we’ve only, only just healed it, healed together,_ words flew by like ticker tape behind his eyes, he couldn't seem to form sentences. Heartbeat pounding high and dry in his throat, Sherlock tore his gaze from John's ill-fated attempts to open his eyes and instead crowded into the small space between David and the forward-facing seats. He had a bit of height on David.

_USE IT_

FOCUS

Water chopping beneath the boat: tossing bodies like aimless fates.

Sherlock stabilised his feet and shouted into David's face. "The codes! How did you know the codes--we never said them out loud."

David kept his expression guarded, but his tone was churlish. "Taking this boat to meet him, weren't you."

_Enough_

"How did you _know the fucking codes, David_ ," Sherlock snarled.

David laughed.

 _This man was in our flat, was an usher at John's wedding_.

_Dated Mary._

_Dated...Mary._

Nearing Greenwich Pier now, Sherlock could see the edges of the white Baroque buildings, the Old Royal Naval College, the subdued swirl of _patterns, look for patterns_ , muted dead green of the distant landscaping, John's time ticking, distant John, John collapsed on the deck of a _fucking boat_ , THINK YOU IDIOT _THINK_

"You never checked your surveillance after you returned from hospital. All that beeping in the flat?" David smirked. "You just left it. Wasn't hard to tap in." He reached for his mobile as he steered one-handed. An MBNA clipper passed within shouting distance, followed by a small police boat. John would be completely hidden by the seats. Nothing would have looked amiss. Nothing at all.

Pale blue light cast shadows across David's face as he thumbed on his phone's screen in the low-lit interior of the boat's cabin. The rain had given up.

**BC 401**

**8744091**

_Shit shit SHIT_

careless

CARELESS

"Already knew which pier. Followed John out of the courtroom. Easy."

Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock caught John trying to move his arm.

The effort was exhausting: he was barely able to lift it from the deck of the boat.

An inordinate surge of rage burst through every muscle in Sherlock's body.

_FUCK_

_Keep him distracted_

_Don't let on that you're panicking_

_DON'T PANIC_

_No mobile_

_John still has his_

_Whatever it takes_

_There is no suffering unworthy_

_of the price to save him_

Sherlock crowded into David's face, eyes scanning down to measure the outline of the gun, as he kept his voice a growl, "Then why the ethyl butyrate--"

"Ah. More fun, don't you think?"

Strings of sunbeams shined off the boat's hull as the rain clouds withered away into the tin-dull sky. Behind them, John vomited onto Sherlock's scarf.

 

_________________________________________________________

 

Mycroft adjusted his stance in order to clandestinely slip his mobile a few more centimetres out from his pocket.

Two messages:

**16:37**

**Received Messages [number withheld]**

**Baker Street clear. Scanning recorded verbal communications between Pirate and Captain. Update in 30 mins approx.**

**16:38**

**Received Messages** **[number withheld]**

**Bolt holes clear. Messages negative. Next site Captain and AGRA safe house.**

"Mr. Holmes, I'd ask you to please refrain from checking your phone for personal communications during your given testimony. It's an unusual privilege you've been granted in being allowed to keep it on your person, given your status, but do not mistake it for a permanent allowance."

"Apologies, Lord Chief Justice." More of a grimace than a smile. "I'm rather eager for news of my brother and his partner."

"And I'm sure we'll all be notified once it's been discovered where they've run off to."

Mycroft swallowed down his reply.

"Our internal security cameras and the surrounding CCTV are being reviewed as we speak, Mr. Holmes. It would have been essentially impossible for them to have left the area without being seen. Now then. Back to the proceedings, if you don't mind."

"Of course."

A gigantic projection of Jim Moriarty's post-mortem face appeared on the blank courtroom wall, a bouquet of purple-blue bruises around the tight black bullet hole decorating the otherwise smooth planes of his forehead. Little rivers of broken blood vessels and petechia under and on his skin. Blank features for a blank man.

"Have you seen this photograph before?"

"Yes, I have."

"What are the photograph's origins?"

"They were in a file given to me by members of the security team who were present at the swimming pool that evening. I believe the photographs were taken by various technicians at Barts."

With a pointed look over at Mr. Porter, Mr. Simmons clarified, "That's Barts morgue here in London?"

"Correct."

Mr. Simmons glanced down at his notes. "Our official records state that a pathologist called Molly Hooper performed the autopsy and all associated post-mortem examinations."

"That's likely, yes."

"Do you know Ms. Hooper?"

"An acquaintance."

"Would you consider her to be a colleague of your brother's?"

"I'd use that word loosely." Mycroft scanned the public gallery and as he did not see Ms. Hooper nervously camped in any seat, he continued, "She is a competent pathologist but in my opinion indulged my brother's whims too frequently."

"Whims?"

"She was--is fond of him, I'm sure." He sighed. "A severely misplaced fondness, in every sense of the word."

Mr. Simmons remained unswayed. "Did you view Mr. Moriarty's body in person at Barts morgue, Mr. Holmes?"

A raised eyebrow. "I did not, nor did I have any plans to."

"Why not?"

"Why should I have done?"

"Perhaps to confirm the validity of the photographs."

"My attention was needed elsewhere."

The Lord Chief Justice adjusted his chair and himself in it with a quick glance up at the clock. "Let's move along with the line of questioning please, Mr. Simmons."

"Quite right, my Lord." The Crown Prosecutor clicked through a brief series of photographs, all taken from slightly different angles, ending with a final close-up shot of the forehead wound. "To the best of your knowledge, did Mr. Moriarty sustain this fatal injury in the course of the gunfight at the swimming pool?"

"I believe so."

"But you can't -- or you're choosing not to -- confirm it."

"To the best of my knowledge, yes, Mr. Moriarty received this wound at the pool."

"Do you know who shot him?"

"I believe it was John Watson."

"You believe, Mr. Holmes, but you're not absolutely sure?" Mr. Simmons crossed from behind the fortress of the counsellor's table to pose in front of it.

"No, I--"

"You can't be sure?"

"All of the information I was provided suggested that it was John Watson."

"Suggested."

"Ballistics reports, eyewitness accounts--"

"But you didn't see him actually shoot Mr. Moriarty."

"Sorry?"

"You didn't witness, with your own two eyes, Dr. Watson shoot and fatally wound Mr. Moriarty, which directly resulted in Mr. Moriarty's death."

"I did not." Mycroft carefully adjusted his jaw and his tie as he said tersely, "I was rather occupied with watching Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sustain nearly fatal injuries themselves."

Suddenly something shockingly like recognition flashed in Ms. Porter's eyes. She stood abruptly, knocking her precisely notated legal pad to the floor.

"Excuse the interruption--"

"Ms. Porter--"

"Lord Chief Justice--"

"Mr. Holmes, who were your staff that evening?"

"Sorry?"

"The roster. Who _exactly_ were the security personnel that accompanied you to the pool?"

 

________________________________________________________

 

John gasped, mouth gaping as he spit and coughed wet, raw, and Sherlock was at his side in an instant. David forgotten, gun forgotten, boat forgotten: only John. Always only John.

"I'm here, I'm here, I'm here," he chanted, rubbing at John's shoulder as John gagged and retched again into the scarf. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm here, it's okay, I'm here."

John's eyes wouldn't open all the way; instead they fluttered and rolled as he struggled to lift his head. Vein in the middle of his forehead bulging: high blood pressure. The exertion of vomiting? But--

_That's not_

_That's not right_

"David! Please! Let me--whatever you want, I'll do it--" Sherlock held John's head to the side as David sped up the boat ever faster. John sucked in a breath through his nose as Greenwich Pier passed in a blur, useless.

THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK

STAY FOCUSSED

_Dated...Mary._

"I know you loved her!" Shouting at nothing, at the back of David's head, at his last chance. "It should've been you!"

Something unlocked in the foundation of David's posture.

David steered the boat dangerously close to a far larger for-private-hire charter yacht, which warranted an ear-splitting blow of the other boat's horn.

"He killed her." Almost a monotone, as if practiced, recited routinely, quietly, in the dark.

"It was impossible to see--"

"He fucking killed her," David's voice broke over the crackle of the Sealine's radio coming to life, "he killed my Anna."

"David-- _John take my hand, squeeze it, hold_ \--I know what she meant to you, please," Sherlock moved himself between David, who had turned his head to stare at the both of them, and John, whose entire body seized with great, wracking coughs, "John didn't know, he didn't know--"

Just as a voice on the radio wheezed though the static, "We're ready."

_No_

_Oh god no_

_How_

_No no no_

Moran.

"Gallions Point," came the voice, somehow sleazy, sickening, even through the static.

_Gallions Point Marina_

_Relatively quiet area_

_Few witnesses_

_Flammable liquid_

_All over everywhere_

_On the boat_

_And_

_On John's skin_

"Don't do something you'll regret." Sherlock gripped John's hand, knuckles white, trying to ease John's coughing by using the other arm to hold his weak rolling head up and away from the sodden fetid scarf, " _John, breathe, trust me--_ " They were caught, trapped, John a baby sparrow in the mouth of a wolf.

"I won't regret this," David snarled as he left the boat's controls and stepped forward lightning fast to snap one bracelet of a pair of handcuffs closed cold and tight around Sherlock's left wrist, the other around John's right one. With a click, locked. Locked together. Again. Another pair of handcuffs. The boat shot forward wildly and like a hot knife cut through the traffic on the river. Glittering marble buildings, cheers from restaurants, emergency sirens aching in the cold air. Mingling aromas of the Thames, pristine plastic, and sweat. David's eyes hollow.

_He's going to handcuff us to the boat_

_And blow it up_

David spat onto the deck in front of them. "But first I want to say some things." He drew the gun out from beneath his shirt, pointed it down at the deck.

"S'do I," John gasped.

Sherlock's love was exquisite in its simplicity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've likely extremely exaggerated the effects on the body of ethyl butyrate as absorbed through skin (many apologies to science-minded people) but I needed something that suited several certain...criteria...and that seemed as close as I could manage.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	16. i call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the summer  
> Took my gun  
> And made him go to Neverland  
> He was something  
> My old husband  
> He was all you'd ever want
> 
> Did you say somethin'  
> What'd you say?  
> Was that your voice or was that me?
> 
> [...]
> 
> They'll never ever let me be  
> Was that your voice or was that me?
> 
> Dirty Dustin  
> Said he saw him  
> Playin' ball with Dizzy Jim  
> Dizzy Jim  
> Had never spoken  
> Whispered back "You murdered him."
> 
> My heart strings broke and it was me  
> I pull they stretch infinitely
> 
> In the summer silence  
> I was getting violent  
> In the summer silence  
> I was doing nothing
> 
> Play with me my love  
> In the summer sun  
> I'll be waiting it  
> Your favorite Cheshire grin
> 
> Lay with me my dear  
> In the evening clear  
> I'll be dreaming in  
> My paper pale skin
> 
> [...]
> 
> Mama's Gun ~ Glass Animals
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
> [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/JJTbMqImZ5k)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence and descriptions of injury.

A thousand fires each the size of a pinprick scorched the palm of his hand.

Sand-dry raw skin. Singed.

 _I'm dreaming_ , John managed, a thought that slipped away between sensations like trying to grasp oil out of water.

***

_John locks the door to the flat behind him. Two twin windows cast tombs of shadow instead of light over the darkened sitting room. His chest heaves as he collapses against the familiar woollen cape of the Belstaff hung on the back of the--no, that's--no that's not right--John blinks--and--the light, why's the light slanting like that, windows allow for light not shadow--John blinks again and watches the sofa slowly lift up from the ground, one leg, then the next, then the next, then the next. Water flooding the carpet, around his boots and up to his ankles. Their burnt carpet soaking beneath his feet, crimson-coloured water--_

_Flood._

_Two of each, two by two, one of each and two by two._

_Her eyes had been blue, hadn't they. Vibrant, textbook blue._

_His eyes weren't a classifiable colour. The reflection of regret._

_John forces a look down at the blood red water swirling now just below his knees. He knows, somehow, without looking, that Sherlock is sat motionless in his chair across the room._

_"SHERLOCK!"_

_Perfectly still silence._

_He tries to look, tries to force his head to turn, but he can't: he's chained. The Belstaff smells of oxidised copper and Sherlock's brand of cigarettes as it wraps around his waist, his arms, one sleeve tightening slowly around his neck as he feels the wooden door press firmly against his spine._

_"It's not over, John." Mary floats on her back in front of John's chair, her hair in soaked golden ringlets as she stares up at Sherlock. The metallic smell of blood permeates the salt-heavy air and John, eyes watering, sucks in a breath._

_"Shall I help him along?"_

_Sherlock is a statue, unmoving. His eyes...his eyes...are--oh, no--_

_"Sherlock! Sher--" John pulls at the heavy wet wool of the Belstaff and struggles to shift his weight but the water has surged to his waist. The room jerks suddenly, and spins, jostling John to slip sideways. Debris from the flat floats around his head in figure-eights, the water whirlpooling and tugging him bit by bit by bit by bit by bit by bit by bit by bit by bit_

_down_

***

The sun was a golden peach hung low in the sky when John felt a subtle return to consciousness starting at the root of his spine.

It curled in spirals up to the base of his skull, through to his legs and each of his arms, and set alight the nerves at the tips of his fingers and nose. Like waking up in a beige room with grey curtains after a long illness, in most cases there was an ordinary, bland level of discomfort that came with the transition from unconscious to conscious thought and sensation.

His discomfort was neither bland nor ordinary.

A frantic effort to remember, the dusty glimmer between asleep and awake that burst into _where am I_ and John's eyes searched the room, no, not a room...spinning, no, rocking...swimming, but...dry.

The whites of Sherlock's eyes were dark red and swollen against his vibrant seaglass irises.

No, no no no.

Seaglass.

Sea.

Too unknown to know.

Unclassifiable.

John's head rolled and hit against something hard. A foul smell wafted up from a puddle beneath his cheek. Something cold circled his wrist and cut sore grooves into his skin.

 _Fuck_.

"John!"

He couldn't set his eyes and ears right; as he watched Sherlock mouthing something above him, he felt like a radio with the tuning turned slightly wonky, distorted messages scratching annoyingly at the insides of his ears but not registering home. His heartbeat skittered behind his lungs as his breaths came high and fast. John tried his arm, experimentally, then a swallow, and the world turned on its axis again. Rough water-resistant carpeting rubbed at his jaw. Again, he rolled back and hit against something hard. Sherlock was shouting; John couldn't make out a single syllable.

Was he restrained? None of his limbs seemed to be working.

Then his wrist lifted of its own accord.

"--want to say some things."

David. _David_. David? David had been. Where? There. At the courtroom. David had followed him out. Something about cigarettes, and a handshake, and having to leave... It wasn't...personal.

What wasn't, exactly?

John winced as he rolled back again, heaving a cough out from deep in his core, vomit clinging in thin strings to his chin and cheek. Asthmatic wheezing, it felt like, if you were wheezing with a burnt hand, a violent bout of food poisoning, and an axe wedged between your foramen magnum and squama occipitalis. His chest ached and his abdomen strained from retching; a glance down to his palm betrayed a blotchy crimson rash across the stretched skin.

"S'do I," he slurred before thinking as the boat lurched. David stood above them gripping a black Glock pointed down at the boat deck. John felt Sherlock's grip and his shaking body braced like a shield above his head.

 _Vatican cameos_ , he'd thought he'd heard. Battle stations. Someone's going to die.

He turned his head to spew another round of the remaining contents of his stomach onto Sherlock's cashmere scarf, and as he did he squeezed Sherlock's hand ever so slightly, barely any pressure at all, but he knew the message would be immediately understood.

_I've got a plan._

_I think_.

____________________________________________________________________

 

Mycroft felt twin vibrations in his pocket. Shifting his weight to give the appearance of perpetual patience even with minor muscle strain, he wiggled the mobile out enough to have a glance at the screen.

**16:56**

**Received Messages**

**[John Watson]**

**Boat thwmes sh**

**16:57**

**Received Messages**

**[John Watson]**

**HELNOFTRY**

Mycroft felt everything south of his stomach clench in unison.

"Mr. Holmes. It is absolutely imperative that we have access to the official roster of the security services staff that were present that night. This particular division of British intelligence field operatives are not customarily involved in these types of manoeuvres, and needless to say, neither are foreign operatives, which naturally renders this situation highly irregular."

"Yes. They were agents mostly vetted by--I'll make a call."

" _Mostly_ vetted?!" Mr. Simmons' tone was beyond indignant. "Please excuse the interruption but my Lord Chief Justice, why would this information not have been already registered into evidence--"

"Oh please, why not, my learned friend." Cynthia Porter rallied at her opposed colleague. "Let's discuss the repeated attempts to sabotage the proceedings by certain parties. Shall we perhaps involve other members of GCHQ or the Interception and Intelligence Services Commissioners or perhaps you'd like to refer to the esteemed Parliamentary Intelligence and Security Committee--"

"Enough!"

Mind racing, Mycroft gripped the wooden barriers of the defendant's stand. _Helen of Troy_. Helen of Troy meant--

Ms. Porter rummaged through the contents of a collection of filing folders on the desk in front of her before stabbing at her laptop with a few precisely manicured fingers. "I have the list of MI6, SOE operatives, and also CIA-affiliated British Security Services staff at my disposal right here, my Lord, if you would like to see--"

"Yes--"

"Mr. Holmes, are you feeling quite alright? You look utterly pale."

"Fine."

 _Helen of Troy Helen of Troy Helen of Troy...It had been ages since we'd worked out the mythological codes_ , Mycroft thought as he worried his bottom lip through his teeth, _biblical we've used more often, Lazarus case in point, but Helen of Troy--_ the myth he knew, of course but as for the particulars, the role he must play...

Dammit.

"My Lord Chief Justice, may I respectfully submit as evidence the list of security services agents who attended the defendant Mr. Mycroft Holmes this past January on the night of--"

"Just read the names, Ms. Porter."

Mycroft kept his eyes slightly out of focus and so remarkably unnoticed he slipped into the office in his mind palace and quickly paged through one of his more frequently used filing cabinets.

_Little Brother //_

_Codes [Emergency] //_

_Mythological //_

_-Icarus_

_-the Sirens_

_-Sisyphus_

_-Cyclops_

_Helen of Troy._

_Shit._

"...Maughan, Christopher, wounded. Perkins, Michael, deceased. Spencer, Amelia, wounded. Veevers, Daniel, unharmed. Khan, Mo, unharmed. Holliday, Richard, decreased. Hunter,--sorry, next page, my laptop's...erm, it's frozen, sorry. One moment--"

Mycroft slammed the door shut to the Little Brother wing of his mind palace and slipped as soundless as an eel back into the proceedings. He coughed mildly. "Do excuse me."

"Mr. Holmes? Sir?!"

"Apologies." Mycroft stumbled out from his perch in the defendants' box and headed for the courtroom door, pushing through the exit one-handed much to the alarm of the sleepy-looking officer assigned its guard. "I'm unwell," he mumbled over his shoulder as he reached for his mobile, thumbing a familiar number sight unseen as he stepped into the deserted corridor and collapsed against the roughly textured wallpaper.

The call picked up within two rings.

"Lestrade." Mycroft lowered his voice. "Greg. I need you."

____________________________________________________________________

"David! The boat!"

He could just make out the glint of some kind of steel structure, a pier? another boat? above the edge of the leather seating. John tried to lift his head further but the world continued to spin. Sherlock's hand around his, an anchor, kept him tethered.

"Shit--" David spun around to steady the controls one-handed and steered the careening boat to narrowly miss an at-capacity chartered yacht. A muted whirl of shouts and a honking horn battered John's ears. Sun nearly set, David clicked off the automatic lighting system as he steered the boat closer to Woolwich North Pier, revving the motor to suddenly accelerate around the eastern edge.

Shadows hid Sherlock's face as he bent close to capture the stolen moment and whisper against John's skin, "Alright?! I'm sorry, I--we only have--"

"Yeah."

"John."

"Yeah--'ve got it." He grimaced in what he hoped looked marginally like a smile. "I heard you."

He silently explained the rest of it with a look.

Sherlock nodded.

_We can't run_

_No_

_We're handcuffed - together_

_Yes_

_Do what you do best_

_I'll do my part_

_This is just like every other time_

_Except it isn't_ , Sherlock seemed to say.

_It has to be_

_Every other time we've survived_

_I was panicking_ , a curly-haired head bowed slightly.

_I know_

_It's alright_

_I would've done_

_You're hurt_ , came after a familiar appraising squint.

_Am I hurt if I can still do this?_ before a pair of weak lips kissed the inside of a wrist wrapped in steel. 

_Ready?_

_Yes_.

David tucked the boat haphazardly behind the curved arm of the pier before setting the motor to idle in the shallower waters. The wake from the boat beat up against the sides in waves, lolling them gently back and forth like a macabre lullaby. Effectively hidden from any passing vessels, cars and lorries lumbered ignorantly onto the waiting ferry several metres above their heads. David stood silent in the dusk behind the steering panel for a moment as he watched John. Light from the ferry's docks echoed into pinpricks in David's dark eyes and cast shadows across the figures in the small cabin.

John watched David, calculating.

Somehow, he knew what to say.

"Not personal, is it."

David laughed.

"How long--have you worked--" He was careful to annunciate and drew breaths in between his words. John adjusted his position on the water-resistant carpeting, aware of Sherlock breathing shallowly beside him, "--for Mycroft?"

"Oh, fuck you." David's voice was loose but he subconsciously tightened his grip on the weapon. "If you think you've worked everything out like Prince Fucking Genius here, you're wrong."

"You do. It was missing--at the safehouse--in the files." John swallowed.

The boat's motor hummed with displeasure at its sudden idleness after prolonged exertion and the buzz rattled John's skull, relentlessly hammering at the nerves behind his eyes.

"I never worked for your twat of a brother, Sherl--"

"Address me, David." John pushed himself to sitting and willed his voice to be strong. "Leave him--out of this. This is about you, and me, and Mary." He coughed and David flinched. "Anna."

David's eyes turned to daggers. "She ever tell you?" John stayed silent, waiting. "That I met her on a job? That I wanted to marry her? She was going to be able to stay in the UK 'cause of me."

 _Wait_.

David's voice was thick. "I _loved_ her."

"She--"

"And she loved me too, 'til she threw me over for your pathetic arse."

"You came to the wedding."

David barked out a bitter laugh. "The lengths you'll go and all that."

Sherlock's tone was low and measured. "She was placed with John, David. Just like your brother was placed in Belarus--"

"Just shut up."

"--to work on the Minsk case. Barry Berwick, wasn't it?--full marks for an alliterative alias--but Barry Hunter didn't kill his wife, did he. Killed someone else. A convenient cover for what, getting me out of the country? My brother distracted shepherding the lost sheep to a prize so you and Mary could have a little run-along against company rules? No one to see? John wasn't in her sights yet, easy enough."

Sherlock squeezed John's hand lightly. John retched again in the sodden scarf pile.

"Your brother did it. He ruined everything," David whispered.

"He didn't. He didn't, David--"

"He placed her with him when you were dead."

"No."

The radio crackled to life again. "David! ETA!"

Moran.

_Keep him waiting_

John held Sherlock's hand as he suppressed a gag reflex, stomach empty.

_Go on_

"What you were gonna offer Moran, then?" David queried, voice tense, as he readjusted the Glock from its target near their ankles to point it at Sherlock's forehead. "At your meeting."

"We were to--negotiate terms for my brother's exoneration." Sherlock forced in a breath through his nose and stood, careful of John's handcuffed arm but not letting go of his hand, as he stepped forward toward David and the gun.

"And you think he wouldn't take the chance to play you?!" An ugly burst of a laugh. "Triple bluff, mate."

"Why'd you go in with Moran?" John asked sharply.

"Why d'you think, idiot. I fucking hate you lot, he hates you lot," David wiped his nose along a sleeve, "and people we loved are dead 'cause of you lot."

 _That's what people do_ , echoed somewhere in a memory. _They die_.

"You've made a mistake, David." John winced as he slowly gathered himself up to fully standing.

_This is better_

_You sure?_

_I'm beside you_

"Oh have I done?" David's tone was sarcastic but the gun wavered between their heads as his expression briefly clouded before he readjusted his features into slick disbelief.

"The memory stick. Someone gave it to her in case her cover was blown, someone who worked for Mycroft Holmes. She was supposed to pass it along only under specific circumstances." Sherlock's words spilt out in a tumble one over the other. "It was you."

"So," David snarled.

"You were at--the pool." John breathed. His chest ached but he felt the familiar surge of adrenaline start to pulse through his body. "Both times. That was the job, wasn't it. The first time round." John kept talking as David cocked the gun. "When you two met."

____________________________________________________________________

 

"Mycroft, you can't!"

"Why."

"Well, for one thing you're being bloody held at Her Majesty's bloody pleasure at the moment." Lestrade hissed.

"That doesn't mean--"

"Look. We've got three squads and two Special Ops, two helis, and a dive team. The best of the Met. I promise. I'll go myself."

"I apologise that Security Services can't assist. We're bit tied up in this...mess."

Mycroft leaned a shoulder against the wall as he half-listened to Lestrade bracing the phone between shoulder and ear to ramble off more orders to various teams at the Yard and half-mentally reviewed the data: Kidnapped. On a boat. Thames. Abductor unknown, probably an associate of but most likely one of Sherlock's many enemies.

Or perhaps...

No. Impossible. The security protocols were impeccable.

"...and Mark get on with it! Donovan, ring the Chief Superintendent. No, scratch that. Sod the bastard. He'll approve this or I'm taking early pension release--"

"DI Lestrade." Mycroft glanced down the long corridor at the exasperated courtroom attendant before again lowering his voice and turning his back. "Greg."

"Sorry," Lestrade's voice came in louder, the phone pressed once again from hand to cheek. "Say again?"

"Hurry. Please."

"You got it. And Myc, I--"

"Mr. Holmes!" Ms. Porter unexpectedly burst through the courtroom door with a flurry of robes railing behind her, wig gone just askew. She looked ashen save for the flush on the apples of her cheeks.

"It's David Hunter and Sebastian Moran. They've disappeared."

Mycroft Holmes had never dropped a phone in his life.

"Oi! All right?" came Lestrade's voice from the floor.

____________________________________________________________________

 

"Both. Would've had a couple hundred thousand quid each to blow your brains out except we didn't have a chance, thanks to fucking Jim, as usual." David was growing restless. "Enough. Time for you to die, for good this time."

"Oh dull." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he moved toward David.

"Take one more step, mate. One more step."

"Shall I do it for him?" John smiled benignly.

_Fuck_

_You_

David grinned too widely, a disturbing distortion of his features. "You're gonna regret you said that." Someone on the pier had noticed their boat and was shouting down to the ferry attendants, gesturing frantically over the railings. David revved the engine once more and angled the bow out from behind the pier just as the ferry rumbled to life. The massive boat seemed to ache with the burdens of its load as it eased onto the rushing waters of the Thames. "Seb's waiting. Count your minutes," he shouted back and tapped a rhythm with the tip of the gun against a canister of ethyl butyrate tucked above the steering panel.

_Here we go_

John stood as best he could on the speeding boat and held tightly Sherlock's hand as the sun dipped below the horizon. London slid into the blue-grey haze of early evening and the rapidly chilling air slapped across his bare nose and cheeks. Passing boats grew fewer in number and the tide of the river was noticeably changed from earlier in the day. The ferry had gone off and John mindlessly noticed the Royal Victoria Gardens on the north bank pass in a blur, bare and bundled against the chalky sky.

He didn't turn or speak to Sherlock and nor did Sherlock to him. Neither of them made a move to overtake David and the boat, or escape, or gain the attention of passing boats, and yet John knew resolutely without an once of doubt what was going to happen. It would all be alright, they would be fine. They would be fine.

He hoped.

Sherlock squeezed his hand again. The metal cuffs clanked together quietly and John choked down a dry swallow. John squeezed Sherlock's hand back.

_I hope he dies first_

_At least I could hold him_

_And he won't have to see what will happen after_

He clenched his free hand into a fist.

_Stop it_

_We're going to die old men side-by-side in our bed_

Gallions Point Marina soon swept into sight. Fluorescent flood lights illuminated the perimeter of the site and the small office building, but the drydocks, the slipway, and most of the bays were darkened. The lock gates, necessary on the tidal Thames in order to sustain enough depth for adequate operations, were closed. Four red lights barred the steel plated gates and a small blue glow emanated from the keycode pad above a small intercom speaker system installed to the right of the entrance channel. David slowed the motor and eased the boat into the narrow space. Waves lapped quietly against the surrounding concrete walls behind their advance. He reached for the keypad but before he could punch in any code the lock gates eased their way open unbidden. The white and silver Sealine S450 and its passengers entered into the shadowy marina, which was completely deserted other than for two men waiting on a quay dotted with evenly spaced and coiled mooring lines. A sleek and small, charcoal-coloured four-seat helicopter fitted with a machine gun waited a few metres away on a concrete pad. The rotor blades were still but the turbine engine hummed.

_A seat for the pilot_

_Moran_

_David_

_And who?_

David cut the motor on the boat and let it glide soundlessly over to where Moran and the pilot waited. Moran was stood casually with his arms crossed but the pilot, tall with sandy grey hair, revealed a measure of tension in his posture, hands full with a _British Army SA80 A2 assault weapon fitted with a SUSAT and a II night sight pointed right at Sherlock's carotid arter_ y, John registered automatically. _Effective range of 400 metres_ , he recalled as he sucked in a breath through his teeth, _at least we have David's Glock_.

_Fuck_

_We don't have to get that close and he can easily--_

Sherlock called out to Moran. "How considerate to send an escort for our rendezvous."

"It's a small town," Moran laughed. "Everyone knows everyone and turns out everyone wants you dead."

"And my brother?"

"Surely he's on his way. Pity he'll miss your tragic death in a boating accident."

"Made him throw his phone in the river, Seb," David shouted. "No chance."

"Get rid of your man," John snapped with a curt nod at the helicopter pilot.

"What fun would that be?" Moran whinged in a mocking tone. The pilot grunted his approval. Moran's eyes narrowed; his voice turned dark and sharp. "Here's what I want."

Without looking over John could tell Sherlock was scanning and deducing and he realised his hand was nearly numb, so tightly intertwined were their fingers.

"The answer's no." Sherlock said abruptly.

"You haven't let me ask your--"

"No." John heard himself echo.

David immediately hit the back of each of their knees with a booted foot. Sherlock, then John, buckled with a heavy thud onto the rough carpeting.

"You always think everything's so clever, Sherlock, isn't that what Jim said?" Moran smiled benignly. "Prison security's only as strong as the weakest idiot. Everyone has a price." He kicked at the bow as it bumped up against the buoy tied to the quay. "You've got a price too, don't you, John."

"No." John stretched his still-burning palm, ripping thin rivers of skin open and raw.

"A beauty, isn't it. A refitted Lynx Mk9A. I'm sure you remember from your Kandahar days, John." Moran gestured to the waiting helicopter, then its pilot. "Hansen here is masterful at chartered escapes from burning boats."

John pushed down memories. He had been in a Lynx, plenty of times. None of them good.

Hansen again grunted his approval.

"I said, the answer's no." Sherlock squared his jaw.

"One extra seat. You decide who stays alive for it."

"No."

Moran was relentless. "David, get the other pair of cuffs." David murmured his assent.

"Your brother will thank me." Moran crowed, as over his shoulder John heard David rummaging through a lock box beneath the captain's seat and then the familiar _szlik_  of the handcuffs opening. "He won't have to babysit you during his...terminal captivity. Free at last."

Sherlock laughed. "Where do you think you're going? We're in a fucking marina in London. You think you're going to just fly away unnoticed--"

"Shut up!" David barked. John could see the Glock wobbling in and out of his peripheral vision.

_If I could just_

John cleared his throat. "I'll go with you." Beside him Sherlock froze. "You want one of us, fine, I'll go but Sherlock leaves alive."

_Don't react Sherlock_

_Sometimes we need to...improvise_

"You have my word," Moran gurgled, syrupy sweet. The boat's bow bumped up against the buoy again. "David, uncuff John and cuff Sherlock to the boat."

David let the extra pair of cuffs bounce to the floor and went about searching for the key. Hansen shifted the SA80 to point at John's heart.

_Gun's off Sherlock, then_

_Good_

Sherlock was silently calculating but stayed resolutely still.

_Ready?_

"Just tell me this, David." John kept his voice low, as calm as he could muster. "You were at the pool both times, yeah. You killed Moriarty."

"Idiots wanted to hide I was there. Mycroft thought it easier to write off if it was you," David responded mindlessly as he set about returning the contents of the box to the box and locked it. "I had to watch the love of my life die and then oh no, no _I'd_ cause problems." He laughed mirthlessly. "But you, he thought it was fine, you're the golden boy, the war hero, the one his little brother was taking it up the arse for."

John felt a buzz in his pocket. He glanced at Sherlock, who nodded minutely.

_Mycroft_

"The photos. You did that."

"'Course I did."

"To help frame John."

"I killed Jim. Bullet in the head. He manipulated Anna, treated her like shite. Seb was supposed to have destroyed the body but--"

"But I was captured, unfortunately. Paid off someone to fix it up. Easy." Moran shrugged. "Time's ticking, David."

"So Mycroft knew this whole time--"

"Oh _fuck_ off. You're dead--so's he--and none of this really matters, do it."

"Does it." Sherlock offered, the first time he'd spoken in minutes. David had the gun to pressed to Sherlock's forehead so quickly the movement seemed impossible.

"Say that again." Bent close to his face, David shoved the Glock into skin and bone forcefully enough that Sherlock's head rocked backwards. "Say that again. You chose: this, or being burned alive as you drown. One's quicker but I'd sure as fuck like to see the other one."

_Lower. Lower. Just a bit lower..._

"It's: does it matter. Not do it." Sherlock smiled. "Bad grammar seems a brotherly trait." His brow furrowed and his nose wrinkled as he continued, "and wouldn't the drowning somewhat counteract the whole 'burned alive' bit."

At that moment John's knee smashed up into David's chin, the contact of bone on bone jarring and reverberating down his leg into his hip and knocking David's jaw to an audible close. John gritted his teeth and reached for David with his free arm as David's head rolled to the side and he slapped his arms blindly against John's chest, grabbing him by the labels of his jacket. John felt Sherlock reach with their conjoined hands for the free-falling Glock as David tried to headbutt into the bridge of his nose. John blocked the blow with his free fist and scrambled to shift Sherlock behind his body, landing roughly on his arm as he prevented another attempt from David to knee Sherlock in the stomach.

_Do you have it?!_

_The gun_

Sherlock landed a blow to David's side and slid the gun beneath the small of his back. John, half splayed on top of Sherlock, kicked at David's groin whilst blocking a rhythm of punches to his head and jaw. David grunted and rolled off before shoving his hand under their tangle of bodies. Sherlock pushed David's head down into the carpet with his free hand as John clawed his way beneath David's fingers, bending his wrist back and knocking the gun out of the way. It clanked against a ethyl butyrate canister hidden beneath the boat's leather seating.

Moran was shouting something from his position on the quay.

A bullet whizzed past John's ear and embedded itself into the carpet behind Sherlock's shoulder.

Their eyes met briefly.

Sherlock wrapped his arm about David's middle just as John wound up, gearing for another blow aimed at the underside of David's nose, which wrenched Sherlock's handcuffed arm up into the air. David grabbed Sherlock's exposed elbow and hyperextended the joint; a yelp of pain and John's blood _lit_. Sherlock tried to knee at David's legs just as John's fist came roaring down a moment too late after David jerked his head out of the way. John hit the wrong target before he could stop the motion and Sherlock's head thudded back onto the carpet, a dead weight.

Out cold.

_OH Shit_

_Shit shit shit_

_Shit_

David punched into Sherlock's exposed chest and John heaved himself over David's back, shoving fingers into eyes and ears and mouth and anywhere he could try to gain purchase and rip him away from Sherlock's body. Sherlock's handcuffed and limp arm mirrored John's efforts blindly but David was relentless as he rained blows down on Sherlock's head and torso, ignoring the scratches to his face and neck.

John could barely see through the white rage curdling his vision but forced himself to reach for the gun, forgotten under the seating. It slipped from his grasp as David shoved their handcuffed arms away so John stretched as far as he could with his other hand, twisting his arm out from beneath his torso and stretching, stretching, stretching, until he felt the cold ridges of the Glock's grip strongly secured in his palm. John looked back over his shoulder.

David had fresh blood splattered over his knuckles. Sherlock was bleeding from his hairline and right eye and the corner of his mouth. A sizeable cut bloomed on the bridge of his barely-healed nose and a stream of blood slid down over his cheekbone.

John fired the gun into a canister of ethyl butyrate.

Flames immediately burst out of the small hole in the container and David whipped his head around.

Another bullet whizzed past John's head and shattered the glass window behind the controls panel.

The faint whip of a helicopter's blades whirred above the boat, which John registered only faintly as he shot another canister. Yellow-white fire licked the bottom of the precious leather seating.

"John." David heaved. "You're a dead man."

Another bullet from the Glock punctured a third canister and large chorus of sparks erupted from the storage cupboards above the other seating area.

"No," John breathed as he grabbed Sherlock's wrist and heaved his limp body from underneath David toward the open space between the boat's two seating sections, pushing back with his legs against both of David's arms. The temperature on the boat heated the backs of John's knees and beaded sweat along his brow. "I'm not."

David swung another punch at John which landed on the hinge of his jaw and John fired the gun again.

Another canister burst into flames.

Sherlock made a gurgling noise beneath him.

"Where's the key." John gasped.

"No key."

He split David's lip.

"Where's the key, David," John snapped again.

"No. Key." David spit a clot of blood out onto the floor between the words. He grabbed a full container of ethyl butyrate and wrapped its short but heavy metal chain around Sherlock's ankle. "Shoot this one next."

John shot into three more canisters behind David's head.

The boat suddenly tilted in the water as the smell of melting plastic and burnt water-resistant carpeting grew stronger. A helicopter swarmed into view above John's head and then a spray of bullets punctured the seating in a rapid tattoo.

_Sherlock's totally exposed_

"Surrender yourselves!" came the loudspeaker above. "Hands in the air! Weapons on the ground in full view!"

John shot two more canisters for good measure and threw another full cylinder squarely at David's chest, knocking him backwards and wrenching the tilt of the vessel to one side.

Clenching Sherlock's hand, John pushed Sherlock's unconscious body off the back of the boat, then tensed his handcuffed arm and followed.

He held his breath and let the Thames pull him under.

_Now_

_Save the life_

The water surged over his head and thudded a loud pulse into his ears.

_Sherlock's brain will start to die if he doesn't breathe within three minutes_

John forced his eyes open and reached for the collar of the Belstaff. He had moments, sparse, terrifying moments, to get air into Sherlock's lungs before he could regain consciousness and automatically suck in a chestful of water.

Black curls floated away from his fingers.

_Come_

_Here_

_Now_

Sherlock was sinking, dragging John with him. The full canister loomed in the murky shadows as it dangled from his ankle.

_Nope_

_No you don't_

_Not like this_

With every ounce of strength he could summon, John kicked his legs as hard as he could and pulled Sherlock to his chest.

_Got you_

He gently lifted up Sherlock's chin with his handcuffed hand, pinched Sherlock's nostrils shut with his free hand, and placed his lips over Sherlock's, careful to seal them together tightly. He eased open Sherlock's mouth and blew out all of the air in his lungs in four steady, equal breaths.

Willing their bodies to surface, _it's not that deep here, it can't be that deep in the marina_ , John forced every fibre in every muscle to push _up_.

_Exhaled air still contains some oxygen. Not a lot, but possibly enough to counteract the buildup of carbon dioxide in Sherlock's body._

John was out of air. His sinuses ached.

_Don't breathe before we get there_

_We're almost there love_

_Don't breathe yet_

_Not yet_

He looked up to the surface above his head and the blurred spotlights from the helicopter circling above. A dulled orange glow permeated the river water behind Sherlock's head before turning red-white; a huge wave suddenly pummelled their bodies, pushing them upwards.

Eyes open underwater, John watched the boat explode.

_Get to air_

_Now_

He kicked with everything he had left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes: John is Helen of Troy, in case you were wondering. 
> 
> According to the myth, Helen - the most beautiful woman in the world - was abducted by Paris, a Prince of Troy, an event that provoked the Trojan War. Helen's husband the King of Sparta rallied masses of Greek warriors to fight for her rescue and safe return.
> 
> In _Doctor Faustus_ (1604), Christopher Marlowe writes of Helen:
> 
> _Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships,_  
>  _And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?_  
>  _Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss._  
>  _Her lips suck forth my soul: see where it flies!_
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks, as ever, for reading. If you feel so inclined, I'd love to know what you thought.


	17. sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to breathe life into this  
> Blow, blow the wind into your fists  
> I dig into the earth searching for the torch that leads me to him  
> Carry my soul into animal (animal skin) 
> 
> I walked into the smoke  
> All my thoughts were there  
> I jumped into the lake searching for the tunnel that leads me to him  
> Carry my soul into animal (animal skin) 
> 
> Now I'm good  
> Now I'll try  
> Now I'm good  
> Now I'll try
> 
> Rituals ~ Sin Fang
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
> [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/P8FOMfNeRYs)

_the gun the gun the gun_

_John_

_John's--what--_

The sudden void enveloped him before his head hit the deck. Colourless space, total and encompassing, harboured his body as death waited nearby, ready to pounce if invited.

Sherlock floated limp and loose-limbed in darkness.

 

____________________________________________________________

 

"Mr. Holmes, for you."

Mycroft pinched the mobile out of Ms. Porter's palm as he tucked his own back into his trousers' pocket with his other hand. Nothing, no messages from Lestrade or anyone as of yet and it had been nearly...14 minutes since he'd cracked the screen on his mobile, earlier having sent it careening to the heavily polished floor in an uncustomary moment of panic.

"Thank you, Ms. Porter. Cynthia." He knew she was trying not to look alarmed as she nodded silently at him with a concerned crease furrowed between her eyebrows. He heard himself continue. "Again I'd like to thank--I deeply appreciate the special accommodations I've been allowed, my mobile especially. I realise this situation is rather unusual and you've exceeded every expectation." He felt a strange hitch in his breath and a tightening in his chest he was not wholly prepared to acknowledge. _Stop,_ he chided himself, _now is hardly the time to let sentiment cloud you. You need to be able to think._ "Please also pass along my appreciation to Anthea."

"Of course." She turned away with a hint of a smile and gestured to the guards posted on either side of the holding cell's door to release her, opening up a gasp of fresh air into the small room before the door was eased shut, sealing Mycroft in alone. Even for having certain special accommodations, he was still considered to be a prisoner of sorts and as such had been ushered down and locked into the bowels of the building immediately after it had been discovered that he'd not just retained his personal mobile phone but had also used it to contact Scotland Yard. Apparently he was supposed to stop meddling in his brother's affairs whilst the trial proceedings were granted a temporary stay given the circumstances but Anthea had seen to it that Ms. Porter had been able to procure another means of contact.

_I could wish for this to be the last time, brother mine, but then...what if it is._

He caught the thought and released it before it could settle into the hole in his heart he'd long since tried to plaster over.

 _Outside of unknowingly drinking drugged tea, when is it ever appropriate to admit that after endless years of tiptoeing around the matter, you do, in fact, actually, love someone_. For all he could pretend, this wasn't.

He forced a measure of calm and held the phone to his ear. "Greg."

"Sergeant Donovan," came a rather curt feminine voice over the sound of emergency vehicle sirens and muffled shouting. "We've met, briefly, after the events with your brother a few years ago--"

"Yes. What's happened," Mycroft interrupted. Immediately the muscles in his throat seized and he couldn't quite swallow with his usual unaffected stoicism. In the background he heard a series of gunshots alternatively ricocheting off of or puncturing something metal; the staccato echoed in chaotic patterns through the small speakers of the mobile. He turned his back to the door. Ridiculous, really, since he was wholly alone.

"Right. Yes. Targets Moran and Hunter have been located in Gallions Point Marina. DI Lestrade accompanied Specialist Ops units three and six, captaining one of the helis. Units four and five have entered the scene on foot. It appears that Hunter hijacked the Sealine speedboat and Moran arrived in a refitted Lynx helicopter with another agent. Perimeter has been now been fully secured."

She spoke quickly and decisively, her words tumbling like bricks into Mycroft's ears which thankfully made it easier for him to analyse, categorise, compartmentalise. The gunfire continued, followed by what sounded like some kind of small-scale explosion.

"I see."

"Our other response teams are providing backup and seven emergency services vehicles as well as the London Air Ambulance are on site. Dive team has approached and they've activated extensive search protocols." Sounds of shattering glass splintered through the mobile speakers into Mycroft's ear behind her next words, which she shouted ever so slightly louder into the phone, "I can confirm that John Watson was observed firing an unidentified handgun, Moran's agent also has a weapon and a rapid return of gunfire has exploded the Sealine--"

"But do you have them." The world stopped, hinged.

"They--we're not sure if they." She cleared her throat rather abruptly. "They're in the water."

"Alive?"

"Unconfirmed at this time."

____________________________________________________________

 

The water burned.

 _Pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop_ rapid bursts of gunfire punched into every conceivable surface: the shells of helicopters and boats, rigid drydocks, plastic buoys. Aluminium and fibreglass. Concrete. Flesh.

Burst metal canisters.

"Fire!"

"Copy!"

The acrid smell of burning plastic.

"Moving!"

_pop pop pop pop pop pop pop_

"Reloading, copy?!"

"Copy!"

"Fire!"

_pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop_

Muffled yelling and the muted tone of groans.

"One down! One down! Clark's down!"

"Lift fire! Lift fire!"

A rustle from below, then the sound of steel being ripped apart.

"Contact! Forty metres at five o'clock!"

"It's Hunter! Hunter! Hunter! I have eyes on Hunter!"

"Copy!"

"Moran and unknown agent last spotted on the--shit, return fire!"

"Fire!"

_pop pop pop pop BAM_

A massive explosion rocketed scalding air up into the sky, forcing the Met helicopter to circle round back out of the invisible impact. The combination of the chilly night and the heat from the fires made the hair stand up on the back of Lestrade's neck and along his forearms. A chorus of _pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop_ whizzed by his head and disappeared into the canvas nothing of sky. Shouting from below and then something splashed loud and heavy into the water.

"Lift fire!"

_Fucking hell_

The smoke was incredibly dense but small bursts of gunfire could be seen through the haze. Another explosion, smaller this time, but smelling of petrol or some type of gas; then, strangely, almost like pineapple. 

_pop pop pop pop pop_

A pause, then

_Pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop_

A whoosh, then something wet splintering apart and landing wrong as it hit against a solid surface with a wrenching thud.

"Moving! Perimeter contact. Moran and agent locations unknown. Scanning now."

"Reloading, copy?"

"Copy. Lift fire!"

For blessed moment, a break. The crowded sound of a beat of silence.

The marina glowed as an island in the sea of London. Surrounded by emergency vehicles, it sang as it burned: the frisson of fire and steam, the mechanics of explosions.

Lestrade surveyed the scene of utter destruction below him. 

A singed piece of leather seating floated away at a distance. Slick with oil, it looked oddly serene as it shimmered in the moonlight, slowly buffeted by lapping waves. Thick black plumes of smoke obscured the multicoloured flashes of emergency services vehicles' lights and dimmed the repetitive screams of their sirens. A thin sheen of spilt fuel slid slick and rainbowed over the river water. Pieces of the Lynx's rotor blades and fuselage laid scattered across the concrete platforms of the quay; some burning, others were broken and twisted, as silent and still as carcasses beneath the whir of the Met's helicopter growling like a caged thing above the bloodspill.

Chemical fire consumed the remaining pieces of the boat, its white-hot flames licking up like tongues at the gloomy sky. Another smaller explosion from somewhere beneath the hull rocked a series of waves up against the drydocks.

"David Hunter! Sebastian Moran! Surrender yourselves!"

Nothing. He could see nothing directly below him save for ink dark smoke. Wait...movement. Sparks from a gun--

"Contact, copy!? Twenty metres at one o'clock!"

"Copy! Fire!" Lestrade shouted again into his headset from his perch in the helicopter. A shadow of movement below, and the smoke wasn't clearing, but he could take the risk. He would have to. He'd seen John dump them both off into the water. He'd seen them sink, he was sure of it. _John had training in the RAMC_ , he thought, trying not to panic, _isn't that what you're supposed to do?When you blow up a boat: get the fuck off it and into the water?_ Behind his head, a spray of bullets rained down from the helicopter onto the platform along the sinking Sealine. _They're not on the boat, not a chance if John's still conscious._ His view was nearly completely obstructed due to the smoke listing about, opaque and potent, but he forced two breaths in and out, then barked, "Dive team ready!?"

"Ready."

_Would they have done the same?_

_Made the same call?_

"Approximately--" he cursed the smoke and readjusted the heli's spotlight to survey the area where he'd last seen bubbles easing out of the oiled water, "--twelve degrees north of the stern. Do you copy?!"

_I need you._

That's what Mycroft had said.

"Copy. Entering twelve degrees north of stern."

"Canisters of unknown flammable material on the boat are causing explosions. Keep a radius, Razzi."

"Copy."

He watched, rather than heard, the six members of the Met's elite dive team enter the water with less than a solitary splash. _If I'm wrong_...he didn't finish the thought. Sherlock had been unconscious, Lestrade was certain, when they'd gone off the back of the Sealine. The movement had looked so odd, John shoving him off and then following, like they were weirdly attached, like they had been...

"DI Lestrade!" A crackly voice on the radio. "Marshall at London Air Ambulance requesting clearance, copy?"

"Copy Air Ambulance! In a moment!"

Movement again below--

"Moran and Hunter! You're surrounded! Surrender!"

_How can those bastards be--_

A surge in return fire was again directed up at where Lestrade and the helicopter crew hovered above the scene.

_pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop_

_BAM_

Another explosion rocked the bottom of the helicopter, smaller this time but with boiling-steam air hot enough that Lestrade could feel it on his boots. Bursts of colour red-white-blue peeked out of darkness. He glimpsed the motor detach from the boat in a flurry of electrical sparks and then immediately sink next to a piece of their helicopter's landing gear.

_pop pop pop pop pop pop pop_

"Reloading!"

"Contact at five metres!"

"Eyes on Moran?!"

"Copy! Agent's firing a British Army SA80 A2 assault weapon! Fire!"

_pop pop pop pop pop pop pop_

"Return fire from twenty degrees, copy!"

"Copy! Moving!"

_"Lestrade!"_

A bullet pierced the small square windowed panel next to the pilot's shoulder. Instantaneously a crack spiderwebbed in the glass before it shattered, helped along by another bullet that bypassed the window and lodged directly into the precious flesh of the pilot's shoulder unprotected by his bulletproof vest. He pressed back against his seat with a surprised yelp, the wind knocked out of him.

"Return fire! _Fire_!" Lestrade's throat worked, dry and hot, as the words punched into the microphone. " _Jesus Christ_ , Harrison, all right?!" He reached over, the fingers of one hand outstretched as he grabbed automatically for the cyclic stick and used the other to push his colleague up beneath his seatbelt. "Harrison's been shot!" he shouted back into the radio, "ground control, copy?"

"Copy."

"Shoulder wound. Prep for intake. Dunno how bad."

"Ever landed one of these before?" Harrison groaned. Blood started to blossom out of the crease under his armpit and soak into the fabric of his sleeve. "Pull back on that. I've got the rotor pedal."

_Oh fuck no_

_Fuck fuck no_

"Right yeah right--"

"Lestrade, requesting clearance to land! Marshall at London Air Ambulance!"

_"Lestrade!"_

_pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop_

"Dive team reports targets not recovered. Search protocols engaged. Permission to reconvene?!"

Multiple voices garbled together in Lestrade's ear and overlapped with the persistent rhythm of gunfire.

"Lestrade!"

_pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop_

"Copy! Contact! Twenty-five degrees south of four o'clock, ten metres!"

_pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop BAM pop pop BAM BAM BAM_

"Straight and level," Harrison gritted out through clenched teeth. He shoved his fist against his wound. The helicopter had started to swirl, its nose drifting down towards the concrete. "Reach across--the lever by my thigh, the collective--pull it--" His breathing was strained.

_pop pop pop pop pop_

_POP_

A bullet embedded into Lestrade's plastic seat with a tiny precise punch.

"Got it." Lestrade's heart pummelled in his chest. Another explosion directly below them and the helicopter was buffeted once more by the percussive blast. He grabbed the stick and felt for the throttle. Full on. He tried to clear his thoughts.

_Greg Lestrade_

_You're about to land a helicopter_

_Because he needs you to_

_And he needs you, too_

Lestrade set his jaw and held his breath.

____________________________________________________________

 

_Give up._

_Take a breath._

_Do it._

_Why not?_

_Your brain can be quiet now, after all this._

_All this..._ pressure _._

_Pressure's off. Pressure to be clever, to figure it out, to always have a plan. To know what to do._

_To know how to save him._

_To know how to save yourself._

_Just end it._

_All of it. Finally over._

_It's a sign from the universe, Sherlock._

_Pop off, why don't you._

_Give us a rest._

Reptilian grin. Bulletproof forehead. That voice, that taunting, slick-slime-sing-song familiar voice....

Out of nowhere, the slap lands across his face sharp and stinging.

"Don't."

_Handsome boy._

"You're dead."

_Clever boy._

_All you're good for._

_Here's a chance._

"Stop it."

Oh.

John's voice.

_Don't listen to him, Sherlock. John's given up on you._

_It_

_Was_

_One_

_Too_

_Many_

_Times_

Suddenly an enormous rush of pressure floods his mouth and nose and pours down his throat directly into his lungs. He can feel his chest muscles automatically trying to expand and accommodate for the increased force, but he can't seem to push his ribs apart, can't stretch his intercostals wide enough.

"Sherlock, open your eyes."

Sherlock, for the first time, opens his eyes.

He's sat in a large, rectangular room, empty and bare with blank blue slate-coloured walls, unvarnished wood floor, doorless, windowless. A single lamp, the bulb glowing a soft bird's egg yellow, is hung lonely above his head. Claustrophobic in the way when too many unseen and unsaid things crowd around him and wait, the empty fullness settles down in the stripped bare centre of his mind. The room's silence has a deafening pressure and makes his eardrums ache. Tiny particles dance before his eyes so he looks up and sees dust sprinkling slowly from the midnight dark ceiling, landing in patterns like cutout paper snowflakes at his feet.

He's free to leave.

He built this room, himself. A mind palace room he made when he was twenty four and strung out beyond saving.

He'd thought.

He'd thought this would be a good place to review things.

It's not where the ghost of Moriarty is locked away, nor the wing devoted solely to John, nor the frequently used cabinets and cupboards where chemical equations and tensile strengths of fibres and ash compositions are kept carefully organised, nor is it the room where he retreats to delete, nor the room where he rests, nor the room where he lets himself dream just a little bit, every once in a while, nor the secret room that he's never gone back to save once, only once, on the night of a wedding.

This is a different room. A reviewing room.

An _Is this worth it_ room.

Sherlock is sat in his chair from 221b.

Across from him is John's chair from 221b. Empty, save for the union jack cushion.

"You're underwater at the moment." John's voice echoes loudly. Seeps from the seams in the corners of the room like liquid comfort.

"I know." Sherlock looks over his right shoulder and sees the indigo shadows of waves rolling against the empty walls. He tries to analyse the wave pattern for any indication of his depth or location but finds it's irregular, battered by heat surges he can't calculate and therefore can't understand. He looks to his left and sees an explosion reflected in ultraviolet light. So deeply unseeable he can't imagine it away, it burns into the backs of his eyes in purple stains frosted white at the edges. Florescent, almost, so bright he imagines it bursting the blood vessels in his retinas. Little bursts, little explosions deep inside his body, breaking him apart, freeing him into groups of cells and molecules and atoms. A collection of dust.

He looks back to John's chair.

Everything's the same, except that John is there, sat there squashing the union jack cushion, and John is 10 years old.

"Breathing underwater can hurt you." John tells him this with wide eyes without moving his mouth. He's an identical copy of an image Sherlock saw only once, that of a creased photograph John had tucked away in the back of an old copy of some dog-eared book. A school prize, _John Hamish Watson_ scribbled in black ink on the inside front cover, _Hamish_ scrubbed out with a blue biro later on. Tiny and golden blond, wearing a scruffy red t-shirt and scruffier too-short jeans, John's knobbly knees bump together as his little boy legs dangle from his chair. A small half-healed scab marks the cup of his chin. He speaks again without speaking. His lips stay closed, lop-sided. "You should hold your breath until I say it's okay."

"Is it okay?" Sherlock asks.

"Not yet," John answers.

Sherlock closes his eyes and listens to the pressurised silence of the empty room. Like snow falling into river water, the soft and slow sound of nothing gradually melts the tension in his posture. He eases the muscles in one of his legs, which feels strangely burdened, heavy, like it's forgotten itself or fallen asleep. Dead.

He opens his eyes.

John is still there, sat in his old red chair from 221b but now John is 29 years old and wears his Army uniform. The glint of his identity discs' chain shines along his neck, slides up against his skin as he readjusts the posture of his shoulders. _Capt. Watson_ reads the badge sewn across his chest. A youthful spark lights John's face but doesn't reach his eyes: he hasn't been shot yet, hasn't ever limped or used a cane, but there's something...else. Hair's clipped short, tan that doesn't extend past his wrists.

He stares at Sherlock.

"I know what it's like, this. Wanting to give up." A flicker of understanding across his features, the way he holds his mouth and the focus of his gaze, shifts in acknowledgment of Sherlock's unspoken question. He's fit and healthy, sure of himself, confident, capable. But a piece of him doubts, the quiet piece that resurrects itself when he thinks no one's watching. "When will it stop, you know? When can we stop it, stop people hurting us? Stop hurting people." John sighs with his mouth closed and the air in the room swirls around Sherlock's chair, picks up little clots of dust.

Sherlock waits, silent, and listens.

"But you shouldn't do it." John's dark eyes narrow. A John he's never met knows him. A John he's imagined, a John he's wished he could go back for and save, somehow, knows him and wants to save him. This John shakes his head almost shyly. "Don't do it, Sherlock. Don't breathe."

"It's not that simple. It's an automatic reflex. I won't be able to stop it."

"It is simple," John's mouth is sealed shut. Locked. "Make it simple."

"John. I can't."

Suddenly the room spins. Paper snowflake dust clouds up into whirls and spins and spins and spins around him, around John, around the islands of their chairs. Dust obscures Sherlock's view, seeps into his nose and mouth as he reaches out unseeing, reaches out across the blank space for John, stands up out of his chair as he wipes his face with the back of a hand but the dust is pungent and wet and burrows up inside, it clings to the lining of his nostrils.

"But I'm underwater," he says to the dust.

"Sherlock, sit down."

John again.

The dust settles instantly.

This time it's the John he met on the 29th of January in the lab at Barts all those years ago. Same clothes exactly, same uniform of resignation in his jacket and jeans, yet there's also the same undeniable curiosity peeking though the closed off expression. His hair is more blond than silver, there's a roundness to his face and jaw but there are the familiar bags under his eyes and a stiffness in his leg. Something about the way he sets his face, something desperately sad about him that eases its way out in waves, makes Sherlock's throat feel tight.

The cane is propped unobtrusively up against the armrest of the chair.

Sherlock sits down.

"I think it's time that we talked, Sherlock."

"We can't talk. You're not the real John. You're in my head."

"Now that's settled, I think it's time that we talked." John readjusts his position in his chair, taking the cane with one hand and placing it on the ground. It rolls towards Sherlock's feet and bumps lightly against the tip of his shoe. "I don't need this anymore."

"You did when I met you."

"I needed a lot of things when I met you. And you needed a lot of things too."

Sherlock stares, unblinking, as John pierces him with his gaze. Stakes him clean through.

"John, three minutes and my brain will start to die." He looks over to the wall on his right again and as he speaks the shadow waves immediately shift their patterned shapes into numbers. It's a strange effect, like liquid or smoke irrefutably intangible but yet they glow as solid forms against the slate grey-blue of the wall. Sherlock can't look away. He's glued to the numbers. He watches as they pulse in time with his heartbeat.

01:56

01:57

01:58

"I'm you, right?"

01:59

02:00

02:01

Sherlock tears his gaze away as he looks back to John.

"Right. Then, because I'm you. You know, you... _know_...that I love you. I loved you then, all those years ago. I was afraid of how much I loved you." John ducks his chin just slightly down to his chest. His eyes stay hooked on Sherlock.

Sherlock feels the words stitch themselves into the lining of his capillaries.

It's a physical effect. He feels it.

John continues. "You know this. You still doubt it sometimes, but. You _know_ this now. Sherlock. You have to know how long I've loved you."

"But all the things I've done, the pain I've caused you."

"It wouldn't have mattered--it wouldn't have done if I hadn't loved you. I loved you. I do love you."

Sherlock nods, an echo, a shadow of John's own motion, and closes his eyes briefly for a moment only to blink. When he opens them again, John is his John now, the John from the past few months, today's John, the John that knocked him out cold on the boat. John's soaking wet. Rivulets of water stream down the sides of his face and neck and drip off the hem of his jacket before collecting into little puddles that permeate the dust: dark and wet bleeding into the soft dry patterns like blood on gravelled pavement. He shifts again and the water splats the patterns away.

"You knocked me out." For the first time, Sherlock smiles. The numbers on the wall start to fog at the edge of his peripheral vision. They're growing so slowly he wouldn't notice except all his senses seem to be heightened and he can feel the numbers edge themselves closer. Visceral, almost, solid enough to reach out and touch and yet when he tries to look at them more directly they edge out of sight.

02:11

02:12

02:13

"Listen. I know that you love me. You doubt that I know, but I know." John never moves his mouth and suddenly Sherlock can see every word projected behind John's sopping wet head. Shimmering blue-gold, each word bursts open from the bead of a tiny pinprick. They appear one-by-one then stretch in crooked lines against the slate wall. John doesn't use his mouth to say these words but like before Sherlock can _feel_ them; he feels the words heat the skin on the backs of his hands and the thin watery surface of his eyes as he fights the urge to blink. Dust clogs his nose. He can't breathe.

He knows without looking that John is staring at his mouth.

Ah. There he is.

"My lungs, John."

"You're barely conscious, you couldn't be in your mind palace otherwise. You're not going to breathe." John pins him, locks into him. Still in his chair from 221b and leaning forward now, his hands clasped tight and white between his knees. "What we have now we don't want to lose. We can't."

"We can lose it," Sherlock whispers. "We could. I could lose you."

"You won't. I'm not going anywhere."

The pressure on his lungs feels enormous, insurmountable.

"I have to breathe, John."

"The average human male's total lung capacity is six litres."

"I know that."

"Of course you know that, I'm you."

Sherlock feels the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. He keeps his eyes on John but in his periphery notices that once again the words are projected at a huge scale onto the blank wall one by one as John says them. Or thinks them, rather. Or he thinks them, more like.

"This is a room in my mind palace." He doesn't know why he's saying this. He's talking to himself. John isn't here, isn't anywhere. A figment of his mind conjured up to console himself, apparently. "I'm using you to convince myself."

"You're not using me. You're remembering."

The sudden thought that he doesn't actually know where John is strikes him, hits his pulse like a gong.

John's mouth hasn't moved once this entire time. Sherlock knows what his words have said without hearing them, without reading them parodied in fragments on the wall. The yellow bulb flickers above his head and as it does the room vibrates, a deeply rich tremor that stirs John in his chair.

"I've given you about 4.8 litres from my lungs, Sherlock. All I had left."

02:32

02:33

02:34

Blurred and bleeding into the slate blue, the numbers continue to grow. They overtake John's words and still pulse in time with his heartbeat in a way that feels more urgent even though the pacing is the same.

_Funny how your mind plays tricks_

_It's not a trick_

_No_

_No. I know you for real._

"All I had left, Sherlock." John repeats the words.

Never done that before.

02:38

Sherlock closes his eyes again to blink, and when he opens them, John is changed once more.

Hair all silver-grey now, crinkly lines at the corners of his eyes, smaller than before. Bundled in a tartan shirt and green cardigan, another chain hangs round his neck. Identity discs are replaced by reading glasses. The cane rests delicately again on the arm of the chair.

John is 80 years old.

"But I want to give you more than that, Sherlock." John's voice echoes in his head loud as bells in the silent room. "I want to have a life together. I want that. For as long as we can have it."

The crinkles at the corners of John's eyes make Sherlock's heart ache in way that he doesn't want stopping.

"I want that too."

The words glow white hot against the dark shadows on the wall. Each letter leaves a mark behind, burnt into a pale blank nothing growing smaller with each passing second like bulbs of fairy lights, until finally distant each disappears one by one. The numbers only grow. Now the full height of the wall, they're blurred together so tightly Sherlock can't see definitively where one numeral ends and the next begins.

02:42

02:43

02:44

Slowly the dust starts to fall from Sherlock's nose. Thin and wet it streams from his nostrils and drips over the curve of his upper lip to soak into the crease of his mouth. He coughs.

"No, stop. Stop." John leans forward and reaches for his hand.

Sherlock can feel it, the familiar grip of John's hand; he's as sure of it as he is of the constant thud in his ears and the unbearable pressure in his chest and the too-big numbers on the wall and the strange flood of dust from his nose and the bone-deep knowledge that he loves and is loved by John.

Altogether an elegant fact, after all.

"Sherlock, for us." John gestures with a tilt of his head at the stark room. "Let's never come here again."

A slow smile draws up the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "Alright," he nods.

"Let's grow old," John says with a grin. His eyes are bright.

 

____________________________________________________________

 

 

Two pairs of arms lifted Sherlock from the Thames.

He drank in the sweet cold air with his head tipped up toward the starless sky.

 

 


	18. a remote important region in all who talk:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, don’t you worry  
> You'll be my resolution  
> Characters of no illusion  
> You'll be my resolution  
> Characters of no illusion  
> You'll be my resolution
> 
> Turn around, put it down and see  
> That this is really the place to be.  
> I’m not you, nor you me  
> But we’re both moving steady.
> 
> Resolution ~ Matt Corby
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
> [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/Nj4q4rfDcNw)

"Dead."

"Both?"

"Confirmed."

"Both are dead."

"Yes."

"And the other?"

"Alive."

"I'll let Mycroft know."

___________________________________________________________________

 

John blinked up at the sky, eyes wide, his chest heaving. He couldn't get the air in quickly enough. Wet and dense and rain-salt heavy on his face and John felt the sting of tears in his eyes.

On his back on the metal quay, he could hear Sherlock breathing next to him. Divers coated in thick black neoprene rustled about him, pulling at limbs and adjusting his head and yelling coded commands into their radio headsets and at each other, but behind all of the bustle he distinctly heard the sweet sound of Sherlock choking and groaning and gasping and John felt like sobbing. He felt like leaping to his feet and pulling Sherlock to his side and running away into the night, like singing and dancing a jig and swimming laps up and down the Thames and screaming at the top of his lungs.

_He's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive!_

He tried to turn his head from over one shoulder to the other but a sturdy hand stopped him with gloved fingers pressed into his cheek.

"Doctor Watson keep your head still."

"I'm fine--"

"Limited movement, please, 'til you've been assessed."

"I'm a doctor. I'm fine." John managed to get the words out before heaving a puddle of water from his nose and mouth. Acrid reams of smoke surrounded them. He heard the metal ethyl butyrate canister that had been wound round Sherlock's ankle hit the deck with a loud clang and then remembered with a jolt that he was still holding Sherlock's hand. It was as if they'd simply disappeared into each other. His fingers were nearly numb.

"Sher." He gasped, spittle dripping down his cheek. "Sherlock." Again he tried to turn his head but was thwarted so he gave a tight squeeze. "All right?" He wasn't sure if he'd said it out loud; perhaps he'd willed the thought.

"Copy. All clear. Sherlock Holmes cleared for Air Ambulance pickup in two minutes." An unfamiliar voice above him and an uncomfortable pull on his wrist.

"No! NO no no I need. I go with him," John tried to sit up. "Don't uncuff."

"Lacerations on face and wrists, possible smoke inhalation and water on lungs-- _Doctor Watson be still, please_ \--sorry yes, vitals initially unsteady, now evening out. Hospital admit for scans." The diver gave John a once over and then continued into his radio as he slightly turned his back and lowered his voice, "He's demanding to go with."

"Come again?"

"Watson is demanding to stay with Holmes."

The familiar notes of Greg Lestrade, sounding more strained than usual, arched through the speaker. "Right. Off he goes then."

"But Lestrade--"

"Let him go."

"Is that necessary? They can go in separate helis--"

"That's an order. Over."

The diver sighed, resigned, and shot John a pointed look. "Copy, Lestrade. Order received. Air Ambulance pickup for Sherlock Holmes _and_ John Watson in one minute. Over." He clicked the device back to neutral and shoved it into a pocket on his kit as he reached down to John. "You need to be still until we move you, period. And I _am_ uncuffing you."

John held up his wrist. He didn't let go of Sherlock's hand.

___________________________________________________________________

 

"Greg?"

"Mycroft."

Lestrade's face - grainy and distorted on the small screen - lit up the walls of Mycroft's holding cell. Faint whirs of emergency sirens clouded the clarity of his voice, already hoarse from an evening of yelling into headsets and coughing in smoke.

Mycroft tried to hide his alarm, but let an uncustomary curse slip out instead. "Christ, you've got blood on you."

"It's fine, it's not mine."

"And the owner of the blood."

"In hospital already. He'll recover." Lestrade turned his head, shouted something in a radio for a colleague. He seemed to be in some sort of command vehicle, multicoloured lights blurring around him as people bustled in the background. Flickers of fire glowed behind his head and he rubbed at a smudge across his forehead as he clicked off the radio. "Your brother-in-law is demanding they share transport to A&E."

"He's not my--yet, he's." Mycroft swallowed carefully. "Are you alright."

"If you call being shot at for an hour and landing a helicopter without completely cocking it up _alright_ , then yeah. Can't ever fly that heli again but I'd say it's a draw. Every cloud and all that." Lestrade cracked an exhausted grin for a moment, which passed into concern. "They're both--"

"Yes, Sergeant Donovan already informed me." Mycroft felt suddenly uncertain. "Thank you, for that. For everything."

"'Course." Lestrade winced as his radio crackled to life again. "Hang on--"

Mycroft realised his pulse was elevated. Sherlock was fine, John was fine, Lestrade was fine, Lestrade had apparently single-handedly landed a dysfunctional helicopter because Mycroft had asked him to risk his life, again.

Pixelated Lestrade appeared once more on his mobile screen. "Sorry. We've got questions on containing the ethyl butyrate spill that I've no idea how to answer."

"How long will you be at the scene?"

Lestrade laughed. "Morning? Who the hell knows." He wiped at his nose and coughed. "What about you?"

"I don't know," Mycroft admitted. "We have another briefing in fifteen minutes." He let himself openly smile, a bit. "Greg, before you, before you go--"

"Sorry, one second--Ryan, that's undetermined, put that back--" and the call ended, the video and audio scrambling before Lestrade disappeared into a blank nothing in the palm of his hand.

 _He's fine_ , Mycroft willed into his heartbeat, _the rest can come later_.

___________________________________________________________________

 

The familiar drip of morphine.

John watched a tiny liquid bud burst into the drip chamber and ripple into the pool of medication before easing down the intravenous tube and making its way into Sherlock's veins.

Drip. Plop. Ripple. Ease. In.

Drip. Plop. Ripple. Ease. In.

Drip. Plop. Ripple. Ease. In.

Drip. Plop. Ripple. Ease. In.

"John?"

Sherlock's eyes like lanterns. 

"...Hm? Sorry." John rubbed at the hand hiding the veins drinking the morphine. Long, thin fingers.

"John." Sherlock met his gaze over the stretch of apricot-and-asparagus-coloured hospital blanket covering his legs. John's fingers caught along the seam of the adhesive tape stuck to the top of Sherlock's hand, smoothed it down. "John," he said again.

"Yeah."

"Stop."

"Sorry, sorry." John pulled his hand away, leaned back into his chair with a squeak of metal legs against the too-clean lino floor. The hospital room wobbled at the edges of his vision; he'd been checked out by the doctors once emergency services had successfully delivered them from the Thames to A&E and he had undergone rounds of testing and some picking and prodding to ensure he'd not been poisoned by the ethyl butyrate. A bandaged hand and some fluids and he'd been ruled "fine", thanks in large part to John's insistence. He was fine. He'd always be fine, and Sherlock wouldn't. Sherlock would be not fine, as long as John kept putting him in these situations. He'd led him to the boat, hadn't he, he'd married Mary, or Anna, whatever the fuck her name--

He scratched at the thought.

 _Stop_.

"Come back." Sherlock flipped his hand palm up.

John took it.

"It's over. They're dead or captured and there's nothing we can do."

"But I did this." John said quietly. "I did that," he pointed to the small, circular bruise already blooming beneath Sherlock's right eye, "I did that," at the sore red skin on the wrist bandaged out of sight, "I did that," at the dark mark that mottled the pale skin of his shoulder, "and I did that," he said as he pointed to the soft pink scar just to the right of the middle of Sherlock's chest.

"You ridiculous man," Sherlock murmured with affection. "You want to see what you did?" He pushed the horribly-patterned blanket away from his knees. "You did this," he pointed to the jagged scar on his left knee stitched up in the bathroom of 221b two months after they met, "you did this," at an ancient burn on the inside of the second joint of his third finger that had been forcibly iced after a chemical experiment gone awry, "you did this," with a gesture at another faded echo of long-healed stitches on a bicep, "and you did this." Sherlock pointed to the curve of his own mouth, before parting his lips and drawing in a long, deep breath to expand his chest to its capacity.

His scars stretched, powerless, as Sherlock breathed with clear lungs.

Sherlock exhaled and for a moment John felt like crying. Instead an unexpected shock of relief burst out of him in a heaving half-sob, half-laugh that seemed finally like the release of something.

Sherlock gave him a lopsided smile and laughed. They both laughed, catching it back and forth from each other until tears were seeping into the crinkles around John's eyes and Sherlock's pulse monitor chastised them by bleeping a warning. It was the shared laugher of making it out again.

Of living, after everything.

"You saved my life."

"I punched you."

"Wasn't the first time."

"Sherlock, you could've drowned."

"But I didn't, thanks to you."

"I'm--"

A knock at the door.

"Mr. Holmes, I've collected your test results." In walked a well-heeled (literally) and smartly dressed woman carrying a clipboard. "Dr. Rachabattuni, hello." She held out her hand to Sherlock, then John, then flipped over the charts and picked out a few pages of printed results. A moment of silence as Sherlock scanned her with his viridian gaze and Dr. Rachabattuni scanned him with her hazel one. John looked between the two.

_She's no nonsense_

_Respected by her colleagues_

_Tennis at the weekends_

_Married to her wife for at least 10 years_

John blushed a bit with his own prowess at deduction. Could all be wrong, but...it felt right. He looked back to Sherlock, who was waiting expectantly for Dr. Rachabattuni.

"Well?"

"The CT and MRI came back clear. No bleeding, bruising, swelling, no defined areas of oxygen or blood restriction. Tests for attention span, memory, language processing and production, reasoning and so forth all came back with...above average results, actually." She looked from her clipboard back up to Sherlock, then over at John as if to ask, _is that normal for him?_

John could nearly feel Sherlock biting his own tongue.

"No headache, nausea, or dizziness? Are you experiencing any vision problems, Mr. Holmes?"

"None at all." Sherlock sat prim and proper in his little bed, the very picture of decency and medical compliance. John was busy reading Dr. Rachabattuni's writing upside down. On her forms Mycroft's name was printed neatly into a small box labelled _next of kin first contact_ ; his own name was scribbled with a differently-coloured biro into the tiny space above in it in what looked suspiciously like the handwriting of a certain consulting detective.

"Is that right, Dr. Watson?" She was staring at him expectantly.

John snapped back to attention and squared off his shoulders, an old habit. "Sorry?"

"He's insisting that you're his GP?"

Sherlock gave him a meaningful look.

"Hm, I am. That's true."

"And you feel well enough to provide medical care for him? He'll need to be checked repeatedly for any signs of change--"

"Oh he's very good at checking me. Very good. Very adept. Quite skilled at the checking process." Sherlock interrupted as he pushed up nearly to standing. "Thank you for your time et cetera, Dr. Rachabattuni. We'll be off--"

"I feel fine. All wrapped up." John gestured with his bandaged hand and gently lowered Sherlock back down to the bed with his other hand cupped on a shoulder. "We're ready for the discharge paperwork whenever it's convenient."

"Alright." Dr. Rachabattuni gave them a once over. "You're quite certain you'll be fine at home?"

"Safe as houses," Sherlock opined.

John tried to convey _you think_ _I'm long-suffering but I'm obviously head over heels for this man and would gladly literally carry him out of here in my arms_ with a look. _As a doctor to a doctor, you know..._ "We're fine. We can manage."

"Terrific, that's terrific," Dr. Rachabattuni said in a tone that implied she rather marginally thought it was terrific. "I'll be back shortly with the paperwork and copies of the test results for your personal files. Oh, and might want the telly on." She clicked out of the room rather cryptically on her smart aubergine-coloured heels.

They looked at each other for a moment before John walked over and turned on the television posted above the wardrobe along the wall. It fuzzed to life. The room was a little over-warm and smelled like re-heated food and antiseptic gel and John felt it spin a bit. He was fine but it wasn't like he'd been through _nothing_ , he admitted to himself. _It's alright to go through something and then realise you went through something._

"Come sit with me," Sherlock beckoned.

"Scoot your bum over then..." John started before Mycroft Holmes interrupted him.

"Obviously at this time I have no comment other than I'm pleased that my brother Sherlock Holmes and his partner John Watson have been found alive and been successfully rescued."

John's heart gave a twinge at _partner_.

"Bloody pleased. He's pleased when his pudding arrives on time," Sherlock muttered.

Pale, blinking and beady-eyed but as ever neatly suited, Mycroft was just outside the entrance to the Old Bailey, microphones and spotlights and cameras shoved into his face from all angles with a rather diminutive Cynthia Porter stood next to him. A smaller group of assistant barristers and a few members of the public stood gawking to one side and a legion of various news reporters crowded the small scene. The prosecution and the legal representation for Moran had all but disappeared.

Mycroft continued as his voice betrayed barely a waver, his tone tightly drawn. "I was exceedingly concerned for their well-being and am grateful to the quick thinking and efforts of the Metropolitan Police and their various response teams. It's been...rather a lot to manage. I could not imagine enduring the tragic outcome that likely would have occurred this evening had it not been for their combined actions. It would have been devastating."

At this, Sherlock stayed quiet.

Ms. Porter was diminutive in stature perhaps but she clearly dominated the press conference as when Mycroft's voice trailed off she ably took charge again. "We will be releasing more information shortly once specifics with law enforcement and Specialist Operations personnel have been properly sorted and the involved parties have been duly briefed. New information has come to light regarding the actions of significant witnesses but we are unable to say more at this time. All recovery procedures have come to an end but it is imperative that no member of the public seek to visit the site as the entire area is closed off until given notice. Additionally, we are taking no further questions and will speak no more about these matters other than these prepared statements. We are expecting another press briefing at some point tomorrow morning or early afternoon. Press will be notified approximately one hour before we will be scheduled to begin. Until then, goodnight." She carefully ushered Mycroft off to the side and out of the camera shot.

John glanced at the clock to the left of the window. Gone 01.30 and not a bone in his body felt tired.

The live feed was clipped in favour of returning to the familiar red and white studio.

"That was the end of the press conference just outside the Old Bailey at this hour. You've been watching a breaking news special report regarding Mr. Mycroft Holmes, senior member of the British government, and his trial proceedings ongoing at the Central Criminal Court," the BBC news presenter yammered on. "For the last several weeks we have closed these update segments with 'the trial continues' but tonight it appears it may have all come to an end. Many experts are already speculating on news outlets and elsewhere that proceedings may be terminated due to discontinuance under section 23A of the Prosecution of Offences Act of 1985. Our legal panel advises this means that the Court may decide to refrain from convicting Mr. Holmes of the treason and other alleged offences which have come up against him in recent months - due to a series of actions occurring this past January - in light of this evening's events in a marina along the Thames. Reports of explosions and a significant emergency services response have been confirmed but many of the details are still unknown at this time. We eagerly await the reveal of any additional information at tomorrow's briefing, which we will of course immediately broadcast to our viewers. Next, we move on to a brief update on the impact of Brexit on international markets..."

"Christ." John muttered.

"Yes, turn it off."

"What?"

"Turn it off, we have to go." Sherlock was half out of bed before John realised what was happening. "Mycroft will need our statements." 

"Sherlock."

"Right, where's that paper thingy."

" _Sherlock_."

"The thing that says I can leave."

"We've not got it yet--hang on, did you just rip out your IV?!" John stepped into the incoming tornado that was Motivated Sherlock and placed a palm over the centre of his chest. The IV, abandoned, dribbled a little on the apricot-and-asparagus duvet. "Just, hang on. Mycroft will still be in custody."

"Then we can prepare for once he's released. In the meantime, Lestrade." Sherlock bent his head and pressed his lips against John's with such surprisingly soft pressure that John felt his pulse rise from the subversive subtlety of it.

_This bloody man_

_This beautiful man_

_My man_

"We need that paper thingy then," John interrupted the kiss, voice rough, and gave a cursory sweep of the room, swallowing the last dregs of iced water from his foam cup. There was nothing else to grab: no mobiles (Sherlock's in the Thames, John's collected as evidence), and no clothes (soaked, singed, cut to pieces and ruined). John had forgotten his wallet at the flat, Sherlock often didn't carry one as a matter of principle.

He had nothing to take from what he'd left behind, for once.

They made it two-thirds of the way down the corridor before realising they were still wearing their hospital gowns and before being caught by a gaggle of nurses.

"Heading to the loo." Sherlock yawned breezily, capturing John's hand and trying to squeeze by the small crowd. A failed effort from the beginning, they were blocked in on all sides.

"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes," one of the nurses folded her arms across her waist, "there's a loo in your room--"

"The one down there's better."

"--and where's your morphine--"

"I have it." Sherlock gestured vaguely with his other hand.

"I can see quite clearly that you don't."

"I do. He's right here." Their clasped hands were lifted indignantly.

"Now is not the time for games, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes flashed.

_Oh no_

"Wrong. It's the _perfect_ time for games."

"Is Dr. Rachabattuni available? She has our discharge paperwork--" John tried.

Another nurse interrupted. "We've been told you're not supposed to leave without following proper procedures. The police will need your statements--"

"If you weren't so intent on obstructing the pursuit of justice for an innocent man," Sherlock was coming precariously close to escalating the situation; the deduction explosion was on the tip of his tongue as he scanned the obstinate nurse and her name badge, "perhaps you'd realise that we are trying to do exactly that, _Samantha, and how many trips to Ladbrokes this week_ \--"

"Ah! Dr. Rachabattuni, we're all set." John held out a hand for the prized paperwork just as the doctor was coming upon the small volcano soon to erupt. "Ready to sign."

Sherlock signed with a flourish of annoyance and brotherly love, through John knew he wouldn't readily admit to the latter. Dr. Rachabattuni tried to hide her smile under exasperation but didn't quite manage.

"Good luck with him, not that you need it," she'd whispered to John on their way out.

"Cheers," John'd grinned with a nod. "I don't think I do." 

They bustled out of the corridor, each grabbing a standard sized pair of scrubs to jostle on in the public toilets in A&E before Sherlock, as usual, emerged from hospital triumphant at his victory to summon a cab out of nowhere and then immediately talk down their security detail just enough to convince them a trip to Scotland Yard was necessary.

"But DI Lestrade is still at the scene, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock pulled at his too-short scrub trousers. "Then take us to the scene."

"That's against protocol." The agent shifted her feet.

"Please," John leaned in. "It'll speed things along for your boss, which means a shorter night for you."

She sighed before dismissing the cabbie and letting them climb into a Met patrol car.

"For the second time and never again," Sherlock muttered under his breath as he squeezed in after John.

___________________________________________________________________ 

 

"Which is why I'm always right about things to do with cars. It was a Jaguar XJR. Look again."

"God John, you're as bad as that Clark Jeremy or whatever he's called."

"What, 'cause I can recognise the basic model of a car," he kissed at Sherlock's shoulder.

"Well so can I, obviously, but I haven't taken to watching old episodes of a blisteringly mind-numbing programme to do it." Two arms wrapped, crossed, round John's chest. 

"Oh shut it, I caught you sneaking when Damien Lewis was on." 

"Did not." Sherlock nipped at his ear. 

John laughed. "Then why did you need some _alone time_ in your room after."

"...Indexing."

"Indexing."

"Indexing all the ways in which Damien Lewis is not half of a half the man you are."

"More like it, thanks..." John nestled in Sherlock's all-elbows arms and glanced at the sky through one of the sitting room windows. Judging from the spotty sun breaks above the building opposite, it was late afternoon. They'd spent an inordinate amount of time with Lestrade and his team in the wee hours back in the ruins of the marina, going over and over their actions immediately preceding the destruction that had followed. Each gave their statements and helped to piece together the evening, one that John was not keen to dwell on for too much longer; getting your blood up was one thing, having to yet again escape from likely death was quite another. Lestrade was nearly asleep on his feet by the time they'd left him. Back at the flat they'd collapsed in a heap on Sherlock's - _their_ \- bed, and had slept until John's mouth was uncomfortably parched and Sherlock'd rolled off the bed in his half-asleep efforts to steal the duvet.

A familiar set of footsteps sounded on the stairs up to 221B.

Sherlock unwrapped John and they turned away from the window to face each other.

Laced with alternating layers of precision and foreboding, through sounding nearly a stone lighter, the footsteps belonging to their guest paused just outside the closed door to the flat.

Sherlock's eyebrows arched up toward his curls. "That's him."

"I was bang on then," John turned toward the door, which opened of its own accord before either of them could move over to it.

"He's only just been released from prison, thought he'd spare us an hour---to what do we owe the pleasure, Mycroft. We're in our lounging clothes. We're lounging."

Sherlock was actually dressed in naught but his pants and sheet. John had done a bit better by pulling on a proper t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. Both were barefoot and both were still rather wobbly from the pair of orgasms each had had at the hands of the other in the shower not 20 minutes before. Still suspiciously pink skin lingered over a pulse-point on Sherlock's neck, and John felt a sympathetic rush of heat low in his belly before awkwardly clearing his throat.

Mycroft, tastefully bespoke as ever, stopped his progress into the sitting room. "I was hardly _in prison_."

"Why are you here if not to trumpet your release."

"Honestly. After everything."

"No. I'm." Sherlock gestured to his own chair and dipped his head. "Sorry. Yes."

The brothers exchanged a look that John had witnessed only once, or possibly never. He couldn't recall. Perhaps when Sherlock had killed a man and out of the three of them only two knew what exactly that had meant at the time. It was that kind of look, the kind that apologised and said things too important for words, feelings too expansive and unwieldy for the Holmes brothers to chase into nuanced phrases and neat vocabulary. It was a look that had been a long time coming and John felt its resonance in a deeply personal way, to his surprise.

Mycroft finished crossing the sitting room and sat himself there in Sherlock's chair, leaving John and Sherlock to float unanchored on their feet.

_Now what?_

"Yoohoo!" Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway wearing her traditional combination of aubergine dress and apron and carrying a decorative tray of assorted baked things with little frilly accoutrements. "Heard the door so thought I'd just pop up--oh, hello Mr. Holmes. Goodness, after your ordeal. We're so pleased to see you." She arranged the tray on the low table and bustled off into the kitchen after a wisp of a touch across the line of Mycroft's shoulder. "I'll just get the kettle. I hope you two are being hospitable," she said pointedly.

"Quite," Sherlock murmured, rather enjoying the look of mild discomfort that passed through Mycroft's features. _The man smells a sentimental gesture like spoilt milk_. "Well then. What happened last night."

"Clearly I'm not in prison, am I." Mycroft cocked an eyebrow.

"Clearly." Sherlock folded his arms across his chest.

"And clearly you and John are alive and well, and back at Baker Street."

"Yes--"

"Our teams are in the process of reviewing relevant data and so I thought we ought to debrief whilst we have the chance, all together here. I'll be leaving soon. So will you."

 _We're leaving?_ John felt a twinge of panic in his chest.

"Let's go through it, shall we." Mycroft eased slightly back into the chair and crossed one leg over the other at the knee. The brothers stared at each other, scanning and reading and waiting for the other to speak, until finally, Mycroft sighed. "Last night secured enough evidence to assure the court that I was not involved in the events regarding Moriarty's reappearance at the pool this past New Years, nor was I instrumental in any actions last night. Footage from the helicopter camera systems and tracking data on our mobiles confirmed that Moran and Hunter colluded completely of their own accord. The Met's involvement precludes any sort of--"

"--involvement on the part of your security services staff, naturally." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Two are dead."

"Captured the third?" 

"Implications for chain of command. Negligible role." 

"And the prior?"

"Depends if he could be bothered. The proof is in the pudding, so to speak." A momentary beat of satisfied silence.

"Say again?" John felt the cloud of Holmesian shorthand start to linger in the gaps in conversation. Perhaps he was sat too far away, is all.

"David was killed in the ethyl butyrate explosions," Sherlock read on Mycroft's face, "Moran was shot and died at the scene."

"The helicopter pilot, Hansen, is in custody, of course." Mycroft paused for a moment, newly uncertain, "Sherlock, promise me you'll agree."

"To what," John tried, as he had a seat rather stiffly on the sofa and mentally willed Sherlock to sit in his own red chair and behave, "This morning Scotland Yard said you both you and Lestrade were now totally inaccessible and yet here you are--" 

"Sherlock, I've found--oh dear." Mrs. Hudson clattered a tin of something around on the worktop in the kitchen. "Were these _thumbs_? Again?! Not even refrigerated--"

"To the left. Tea's in the round," Sherlock shouted over without missing a beat or looking away from Mycroft as he landed in John's chair. 

"Here, I'll..." and John scrambled to his feet to help their scandalised non-housekeeper dump what did actually look like decomposed thumbs into the rubbish bin before rustling out a tin marked "FOOD ONLY, SHERLOCK" in John's own handwriting, a round tin which contained an assortment of non-decomposed Tesco-brand teabags.

His heart thrummed.

_Sherlock has to agree to what?_

_Leave again?_

_Christ this cannot be what that was_

_And if it is, I'm coming with him_

John tried to listen from the kitchen but his head felt like it was underwater, so muddled were his ears and sinuses still from their swim in the Thames. He sorted out Mrs. Hudson enough to abandon her for a mission to pop back down for a suitable supply of milk and finally returned to the sofa to Mycroft ending a rather unwieldy sentence with "--and John will like it."

"Will like what?" John sat and the cushion gave a puff. "The fact that David and Moran are dead, now the pilot's talking and they've gathered enough evidence to prove your staff were infiltrated with their operatives as long back as two years ago? I read those files in the safehouse. Spaulding, wasn't it, who did the security footage? He'd been assigned to Anna's detail."

Both brothers stared at him in a joint moment of impressed silence.

"And he'd happened to be an old friend of David Hunter."

Sherlock jut out his chin. "He must've helped David intercept our mobiles and access the codes for the boat. Must've known them before Wiggins left the note for you in Postman's Park, John. Spaulding..." he rubbed both his hands through his curls, "There was nothing about him on that second memory stick, not a mention, not a word of other crimes or times when the three of them had collaborated."

"What about the one I burned? Would it have listed people? We thought they were duplicates."

Mycroft gave a small one-shoulder shrug, his voice apologetic. "The one that you burned was empty, most likely." 

"All that monitoring equipment." John sighed. "We never had it all cleared."

Mycroft hmm'd. "Apologies for that. I had given the order but--" 

"But you were all too inconveniently arrested." Sherlock said quietly as he eyed a stray string along the hem of his sheet.

"Was I right? Two years?" John thought back a year, then another. "After Sherlock came back from Serbia."

Mycroft gave John a pointed look. "And after Anna had fulfilled her assignment from Moriarty, not least where it came to you."

"Was it her?"

"In part. She was one of...many parts." Mycroft looked away. Sherlock was staring at John.

John continued. "Family connection. The woman on the train trying to get at the envelope with Anna's real name a few weeks before the trial started. Kept them close to the cuff, didn't he. Another niece."

"Presumably." Mycroft looked south of shocked.

"Both Moran and David had a penchant for relying on family ties." Sherlock cleared his throat. "David's brother had been stationed in Belarus, you remember. An early test of his ability to manipulate me." 

All of the air rushed from John's lungs. He had to say it, he had to. "And I did shoot her, but I didn't kill her. The fatal shot came from a sniper. Same one that killed Moriarty." He swallowed dry as he heard footsteps once again on the stairs.

"Don't worry boys I've found some milk that will suit," Mrs. Hudson muttered as she entered the flat and crossed back into the kitchen.

Sherlock hummed a solitary note before getting up to move next to John on the sofa, his thigh pressed to John's thigh. Mycroft fiddled with the screen of his mobile he'd pulled out of his pocket.

John waited. "David killed her."

"An unfortunate accident." Mycroft's mobile chimed. He ignored it and looked up and over at John instead. "One he couldn't live with."

"Moran knew," Sherlock continued. "He saw David aiming for Moriarty--"

"--saw him fall--"

"--blocking his sight--"

"--and fired again, hitting her instead."

John paused. "He blamed me. Framed me. "

"He loved her," Sherlock murmured, "and made egregious mistakes because of it."

"A vicious motivator, after all," Mycroft remarked.

"You knew. Back then in hospital, you knew it was David."

"A strong suspicion, more like. The forensics and photographs had all been altered--" Mycroft began.

"--by David and others--" Sherlock interjected. 

Mycroft finished. "To imply that you'd killed Moriarty, yes, even though Molly Hooper testified that he'd never been shot in the head."

A car alarm blared from outside down the street for a few moments until it went mercifully silent. John's brain was whirring.

"Never checked me for a phone, did he, so you--you texted." John scratched at his ear with his non-bandaged hand as he turned to Sherlock next to him. "But--"

"Moran had offered him a chance at redemption," Sherlock said, his eyes soft, "a chance to put right his wrongs--"

"--but he said it wasn't personal, when he shook my hand, he said it wasn't anything like that." John leaned forward, fingers clasped between his knees. 

"And in a way he told you the deeper truth by telling you the opposite," Mycroft replied. "He needed to drug you. Would you have taken his hand otherwise?"

Into the sitting room, light from the afternoon sun glowed like the skin of an orange through the windowpanes and John rolled that thought round his head for a few moments. He was keenly aware of Sherlock breathing quietly beside him and watched Mycroft's expression shift in profile, oblique shadows cast over his features. 

_In a way he told you the deeper truth by telling you the opposite_

_Would you have taken his hand otherwise_

_We'll just have to do it like this,_ lips moving without sound on a rooftop in sight far away.

 _Sherlock is actually a girl's name_ in his blood. Drifting wind on a deserted tarmac.

A year locked away in a safehouse.

Sherlock's thigh pressed warm against him.

John leaned into the heat. "His hand felt normal. He wasn't wearing a glove or anything."

"Small but extremely potent dose applied to the surface of a thin silicone patch attached to the palm. You wouldn't have felt it."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"It's been located in the rubbish bins at the tobacconist where he bought that packet--"

"--of cigarettes."

_Fucking hell_

Mycroft uncrossed then recrossed his legs. "And what of your plan to stage a row in the courtroom and command a £300,000 boat down the Thames to meet with Moran?"

"Thought we'd try to negotiate. Fruitless. He'd changed the terms." Sherlock wobbled a knee up and down, pulled his sheet over it.

"Plus your boat was hijacked."

"That eventuality was not anticipated, obviously."

"Not everything can be anticipated, little brother." Mycroft said, gently.

The sun dipped behind a cloud for a few minutes, then shone again.

"If they're dead why are we leaving." John interrupted the momentary silence that had fallen over the room. He heard the kettle click off in the kitchen and Mrs. Hudson jostle something in a pulled-out drawer. Out of his peripheral vision John could see Sherlock's eyebrows reach for his hairline.

Mycroft leaned forward, clearing his throat carefully. "As we've discussed, I've been cleared. All charges have been dropped as of early this morning."

"Yes, we heard of that prospect in hospital last night."

"All charges save one."

Mrs. Hudson dropped a spoon into the basin with a clatter.

"I'm to be under house arrest," Mycroft parroted, "as punishment for 'procuring and using a private mobile during the court proceedings and disregarding customary protocols for contacting the police in life or death matters during a trial at which I was the defendant', unusual circumstances and familial obligations aside."

"House arrest?" John crossed his arms over his chest. "Then why aren't you--"

"At my house?" Mycroft feigned a smile.

"Mycroft--"

"It begins tomorrow," and anticipating John's next question, Mycroft continued, "for three weeks."

"Three weeks!" Mrs. Hudson came over with the kettle and fussed with pouring them each a share. "All that time for having a silly mobile?" She clucked at Sherlock. "Put that sugar back. Three cubes is enough for one cup."

The extra sugar, spotted and arrested, fell with a little plop back into the bowl. Sherlock scowled good-naturedly but said nothing.

"Three weeks during which I will be able to work from home at capacity with no restrictions. I consider it a holiday." Mycroft took a prim sip of his tea and surveyed the goods on the tray like an emperor inspecting his winter stores.

"Well." John twirled his spoon aimlessly in his cup. "We owe you, Mycroft. For sending Lestrade, everyone. We would've died." He let his thoughts stumble into silence as he took a drink and burnt his tongue.

"I'm afraid I rather owe you the both of you," Mycroft pinched a homemade Jaffa cake and set it in the centre of a small plate. "If you hadn't gone off on a wildly ill-conceived mission to secretly meet with Moran during the trial proceedings we wouldn't have had the evidence against him and David Hunter. Evidence which of course exonerated me in the end."

"Thank goodness my ineptitude won out, as usual." Sherlock rolled his eyes without any heat.

"Sherlock, do be kinder to your brother. All he's been through..." And Mrs. Hudson was back in the kitchen to clandestinely clean some long forgotten smudge and wipe away a tear before sneaking back downstairs a few moments later, closing the door quietly behind her.

Mycroft picked up the Jaffa cake and took a small bite, chewing carefully before he spoke. "On the contrary. You both acted admirably given the circumstances."

"John did. I did nothing." Sherlock dismissed.

"And yet you were the one that contacted me and sent the events spinning into motion, I believe. Helen of Troy was rescued after all." Another small bite of Jaffa.

"You mean contacted you with John's phone."

"And then held off David all on your own." John reminded with a palm on Sherlock's knee. Sherlock sneaked his fingers beneath to twist into John's hand and stole back the extra sugar for his tea.

"Mycroft, you're certain," Sherlock started with uncustomary caution as the sun began to dip behind the line of buildings across Baker Street, sending the room into a purple-grey haze, "you're certain this won't hamper your scheme to crown yourself King someday, now that you've officially blackened your record." There was a tease in his tone, but something else, something tender that John couldn't see the ends of quite yet.

"Truly, brother mine." Mycroft finished his Jaffa, took another sip of tea, and dabbed at his mouth with a serviette covered in lavender-coloured butterflies. "I'll be fine. Please give my regards to Mrs. Hudson. Excellent Jaffas." He gathered himself to standing before he crossed to the centre of the room. John and Sherlock shuffled up from the sofa to meet him in the space between the entrance to the flat and the dinged up side table, momentarily solemn. "My best to you both," he said. "Now. Time to gather your things."

Three sharp knocks on the door.

"I've gotten you a gift. Please don't dishonour my efforts by refusing it." Mycroft winged with great grandiosity over to the closed flat door--

_He's actually enjoying this_

\--which opened to reveal Anthea, soya latte in one hand, mobile in the other, and two round-trip aeroplane tickets tucked into the outside pocket of a smart leather attache case she had under one arm. By way of greeting she thumbed out a text as she primly lifted her elbow for Mycroft to retrieve the tickets. By way of leaving she left without saying anything, eyes glued to her phone.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Ibiza."

"Villa is already booked--"

Sherlock snorted. "I'm surprised you'd think enduring sweaty crowds of under-30s in the 'Gomorrah of the Med' is the first place we'd choose, plus the music is fundamentally unbearable--"

"--just outside of Es Cubells, a small village on the south coast. Isolated, spectacular views, private beach access. No clubs, minimal sweaty crowds. Or so I'm told."

 John was stunned. "Mycroft--thank you, this is incredible."

_Was I not just thinking of Ibiza_

_Christ_

Christ

_Can he get inside our heads now_

"You're welcome, John." Mycroft smiled, genuine this time. "Stay as long as you like. The owner of the villa owed me a favour of sorts, shall we say." He bowed his head and turned back to the door.

"Mycroft," Sherlock called. For a moment, it wasn't the ungrateful snark of a too-smart, too-vulnerable little brother; it was the call of a colleague, an equal. He held out his hand, long fingers wavering in the space between them. "Thank you."

Mycroft took it, somewhat surprised, and responded with a curt nod, but said nothing.

Anthea reappeared in the doorway with her arms full of chic garment bags. "Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson." She shifted one to Sherlock and gave the other to John before unceremoniously leaving them again.

_She's quite a talker, is our Anthea_

John pulled at the zip to reveal a new suit, shirt, and jacket - basically replacements for everything he'd ruined in the river. Sherlock's contained a brand new Belstaff.

"I've taken some liberties with the measurements, John. If things need adjusting, let us know." Mycroft collected himself, hands in pockets, and cast a keen eye over Sherlock's face. "Your other one was missing a button."

_Leave it to a Holmes to replace a £1350 coat for a missing button_

They all nodded at each other, a strange stiff-upper-lip after the emotional complexity of the afternoon.

Mycroft was half-way down the stairs when John realised his opportunity. Hearing the door to 221 open below, John set his suit down on the sofa, pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth and cupped his jaw with his hands. "Just forgot something..." as he scrambled for his wallet on the kitchen table and skittered down the stairs, calling back up to the flat, "and pack me pants this time, Sherlock, it rubs--," stopping as he ran off the front steps and caught Mycroft angling into his black Jag, "--wait--Mycroft, wait."

He dug a finger into his wallet then held out the tattered flap of envelope.

**M-**

**Details on JW.**

**Please.**

**-SH**

"Here, I--. You dropped this, one night in the safehouse, and I took it but it's yours." John looked up from the paper in his hand to Mycroft's face. "That night you said to me 'someday I hope he tells you' and." Mycroft stared at him, unwavering in his gaze, silent. John set his shoulders. "And I wanted to say thank you for doing what you did until he could."

Mycroft's eyes went soft. He took the paper and slowly folded its delicate lines back into place, the ritual performed to satisfaction before he tucked it into the pocket of his own wallet. He offered his hand again to John, who shook it once, twice, before dropping it again.

"I'm glad." Mycroft smiled and turned back to the car, then paused, hand on the top of the open car door as he looked back, quietly earnest. "Whatever he said, he meant it."

And he was gone.

___________________________________________________________________

 

They'd arrived at Ibiza Airport after their two-and-a-half hour flight a bit cramped but no worse for wear and just around late dinner time. Sherlock had done everyone the favour of using his best Eivissenc to not only refrain from insulting their pre-approved driver but also compliment him on his newly-revised choice of restaurant, the highly-rated seaside Pulpo. A multicoloured and eight-armed sculpture of its namesake christened the expansive bar, where they got a bit squiffy on sangria and hierbas ibicencas over ice before moving to their reserved table and diving into their meals.

"You cock," John laughed, swiping at Sherlock's fingers picking at John's sobresada starter after finishing off his own sweet peppers with herbs. "I just gave you one."

"It's called a _sausage_ , John," Sherlock feigned annoyance. "Yours tastes good and I wanted more."

The kiss over the candle-filled table was messy and tasted of roasted tomato and contentment. 

Diners buzzed in various languages around them in the low-lit, cosy restaurant. The smells of stewed seafood in richly flavoured dishes mingled with the salt-fresh swirls of sea air over the covered patio. Fairy lights were strung from thick wooden beams above their heads and soft music complimented the sound of breaking waves on the shore below. When the mains came, John watched Sherlock's langostinos steam up his curls; the elaborate presentation on his plate made the large prawns look like they were dancing on a beach of saffron rice beside a sea of still-simmering sauce.

"Well that rather puts my fish cake in the shade."

"It's not a--it's dorada in a salt jacket, John, you'll like it."

And he did.

Sherlock was quiet during the car ride afterwards, calmly pensive in a way that anchored John for once instead of worrying him. John placed his hand palm up, resting it on the widest part of Sherlock's thigh, and long quick fingers traced soft patterns there. It felt like a dream, the roads winding around them in the dark, the two of them nestled into each other's sides.

"All right?" John whispered at Sherlock's profile.

"Always, with you." The soft patterns looped into a figure-eight, then eight individual letters all overlapped.

They'd have marginal security, a small crew really, not posted with them directly but a short distance away to be called upon if needed, and even then "only if they saw blood", they'd been advised. Somehow Sherlock had thought better of protesting and acquiesced, as he brushed it off with "Mycroft will be less inclined to worry," then quickly added, "if he can be bothered at all." John raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

The villa just outside of Es Cubells was isolated, with spectacular views and a small stretch of private beach that shimmered in the moonlight, the sand easing out of the earth like crushed pearls. Bright white and small, the modern villa had two bedrooms ("oh good, a spare one for all the bags of not-pants that I brought you" Sherlock had kissed onto John's temple as he dumped their luggage on the bed), a sleek kitchen with a bright turquoise tile floor and a ridiculously expensive espresso machine ("don't touch it, you might like it and want one for experiments" John had warned, to which Sherlock had replied "a well-made cortado is a worthwhile experiment, John"), a cosy sitting room with a floor-to-ceiling view of their cove, and an expansive sea-front balcony stuffed with an infinity pool and brightly-coloured chairs and sofas and cushions and succulent Mediterranean plants John recognised but couldn't remember the names of at the moment, given that he was biting back a surge of peaceful joy so vivid he felt his chest might burst from trying to contain it.

So he didn't.

Sherlock had disappeared into the villa and now John was alone on the balcony to take it all in: he stared at the rocky line of the cliffs, the curl of waves up on the beach, the shine of moon on every reflective surface, the lights of a pair of ships bobbing up and down on the horizon behind a cloudy haze. He bit at his bottom lip and let the realisation of competing emotions roll through his body.

Things felt _over_ in a way that had they had never felt before.

Things felt _new_ in a way that had they had never felt before.

_We're alive_

_We've together_

_We're in love_

_I think...we have a future_

_I want a future with him_

Wind swept at his hair and clothes, unusually but pleasantly warm for late March. The wet-salt air tucked up into his nostrils; dense and close, it smelt of sea creatures and traces of lingering heat from the day's sun. He stretched his chest, opening his lungs and breathing freely, as the last remnants of what he'd been carrying for years poured out of him.

"John!" Sherlock suddenly called from inside the villa with a hint of urgency in his tone.

In a second his blood was up and high in his throat. Pushing away from the balcony's railings and through the opened glass door, he rushed through the sitting room into the larger bedroom, where the windows were slightly undone. The long, white gauzy curtains trailed gently along the floor in the evening breeze. John stopped in the doorway to a view of Sherlock stretched out, completely nude, expanses of smooth skin arched against the dark grey of the duvet. He was half-hard already, the heft of himself in the palm of his own hand.

"Now or later?" He asked, aiming at nonchalant. Blushing.

"Both." John unzipped his flies as he kneed up on the bed and reached for that sweet, familiar mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten points to (your Hogwarts house of choice) if you caught:  
> 1) the dig at Top Gear  
> 2) the stolen line from Cabin Pressure
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	19. and as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was a stranger in the city  
> Out of town were the people I knew  
> I had that feeling of self-pity  
> What to do, what to do, what to do  
> The outlook was decidedly blue
> 
> But as I walked through the foggy streets alone  
> It turned out to be the luckiest day I've known
> 
> A foggy day in London town  
> Had me low, had me down  
> I viewed the morning with much alarm  
> British Museum had lost its charm
> 
> How long I wondered,  
> Could this thing last  
> But the age of miracles hadn't passed  
> For suddenly, I saw you there  
> And through foggy London town,  
> The sun was shining everywhere
> 
> A Foggy Day ~ Ella Fitzgerald
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
> [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/6m_beECQ_5o)

His hands.

His perfect hands.

"In that case," Sherlock pressed his mouth against the curve of John's upper lip, "change of venue?"

John had climbed up above him, knee to knee to knee to knee, his arms braced around Sherlock's head and his jeans already pushed halfway down his thighs. Sherlock kept his fist loose on his own cock and gave himself a few long and slow strokes.

"Where?" John kissed a wavering line down from Sherlock's mouth along the already-stubbly skin on the underside of his jaw. "Tick off the shower." Kiss. "Flat." Kiss. "This morning," he replied to the unspoken question and licked against the curve of an earlobe to capture it between his lips before giving it a tug, breathing hot and damp against Sherlock's ear before stopping still and pulling back to make eye contact. "Listen. I want you all the time and anywhere but I'm not scrambling up the side of a cliff to fuck on some precipice in the dark."

"But the thrill, John!" Sherlock smiled and wrapped both hands around the back of John's neck as he turned his face to catch his mouth again for a wet kiss. He stretched out his throat. "Right, then I rather thought the _balcony_ ," he moaned as a burst of pressure bloomed from John's mouth against the skin over his pulse point. Sherlock's heart thudded in his chest. "And at the risk of sounding obscenely sentimental, I would like to...see you under the stars." Dark eyes softened at him in the low light of the room.

"Sentimental?" John chuckled, nipping at the curve of Sherlock's collarbone. "Not you, surely."

"Well." Sherlock's eyes flickered away as he shifted their bodies to align the bulge hidden in John's pants against his own. He could see the head of John's cock straining up against the waistband of his pants and a little damp spot just under the line of elastic. One of John's hands came to rest in Sherlock's curls. 

"Hey," John licked his lips and guided Sherlock's eyes back to his seemingly by sheer force of will. "I like it."

Sherlock took the opportunity to take a squeeze of John's bum as an answer. 

After a few moments of scrambling to pull the duvet off the bed, round up a half-full bottle of lube and divest John of his completely unnecessary clothing, they sauntered out onto the balcony, kings of their own making. The sea melted into the sky in an ombré of midnight blue and black. No lights shone on them save for those made by stars. 

"Kiss me."

He obliged. 

They tossed the duvet over one of the all-weather sofas and adjusted the cushions to form a kind of barrier around the makeshift bed. Sherlock stood, an appraising smirk in the line of his mouth. John groaned. 

"Don't say it."

"We've quite a... _lovenest_."

"Right, that's it," and John toppled him down onto silk.

Nothing, some distant part of Sherlock's brain realised, had really prepared him for this. By _this_ , he didn't mean sex, necessarily; people's obsession with it intrigued him and he'd dabbled himself but never found it very compelling. And not relationships, either, as he'd never thought he'd ever be in one, or find anyone worth the long effort of sustaining thoughtful interest and devotion likewise to what he's invested in his work. He'd gone through his thirty-odd years of life mostly alone, save for the incessant attention of some and the deliberate ignorance of others. Purposefully celibate and singular, he could focus better, do better, _be better_ , he'd always thought, alone.

But no.

No, what he hadn't been prepared for and what he hadn't realised he wanted was the combination of those two things, plus (he can admit) a third: love. 

Authentic, dyed-in-the-wool love.

The kind of someday love he'd wished for as a little boy, and then forgotten.

"All right?"

John was posed like a Greek god against the duvet and cushions. The sight of him after leaving the reverie sent new sparks up Sherlock's spine. 

Everything was subtlety, everything was waiting. But they were _here_ , _now_ , and Sherlock felt something open that had been locked away inside him.

Starlight dressed the edges of John's skin.

"All right."

Their mouths met, a comfort.

Some time later, Sherlock eased his mouth away and started working a route down John's neck, over his chest, then against the thin fine line of hair down his abdomen. John brushed his hands over Sherlock's curls and let them drop to his shoulders; he kneaded gently, his lower back arching up as Sherlock took him into his mouth with a wet soft heat.

"Oh," John breathed. His open eyes matched the colour of the sea. 

Sherlock held John's hips and coaxed him still when the impulse to thrust became overwhelming. The taste of John, the feel of him against his tongue and between his lips, was intoxicating. He moved slowly up and down John's cock: teasing and sucking soft, quick and smooth then slow again, reaching to take him in deep and stretching around John thick and wet in his mouth.

John let his eyes close. "Sherlock," he murmured after a few minutes. 

Sherlock felt for and opened the lube, then cupped his long fingers around John's bollocks, rolling their weight gently in his palm, before he placed the tip of his middle finger at John's entrance and let it lightly rest against the warm heat. He waited, and John spread his thighs.

"Go on then," and Sherlock dipped the tip of his finger inside John.

"Ohh," John sighed. "That's." 

"...Good?" as he pulled his mouth off and eased his finger in up to the first, then second knuckle.

Sherlock thrilled at being inside him. John felt incredible. He was incredible. All parts of him were incredible, he-- 

"Good. _Yeah good_ ," he moaned as Sherlock put his mouth back too. A lubed finger worked in slowly towards that secret golden nub of-- " _Ohhhhh_." Sherlock licked at the head of him and felt again with a soft press of his finger, which earned another round of breathed out expletives and tensed muscles and the sweetest grimace of pleasure on John's face.

_ I did that _

Soon John was panting _oh god_ and Sherlock was pulling at himself furiously with one hand as he sucked John's cock and fucked him with two fingers of the other. Legs askew and sweating, the moonlight lit John's face and Sherlock spared a glance up at him to think _this yes this THIS is what I want! For him to look like that for me to make him look like that forever_ and then Sherlock felt John bear down on his hand and John clutched at Sherlock's hair and flooded Sherlock's mouth with come and Sherlock swallowed and swallowed and held his fingers still inside John and breathed through his nose and shuddered as he came all over a corner of the ridiculously posh blue silk duvet with his knees shaking and his head spinning.

He looked up at John, who was already looking at him.

They grinned at each other as John wiped sweat from his forehead and Sherlock wiped come from his lip.

John groaned. "Well that was brilliant."

"Yeah." Sherlock's body twitched deliciously as the aftereffects of his orgasm spiralled down to his toes. "Yeah."

_ What do you say when words feel small _ , Sherlock wondered.

They breathed. John let his head fall back with his chest still heaving. Sherlock got to his feet as he adjusted his cock, now soft and pink against his thigh. John looked spent, and deliriously happy. 

"Let's kip out here."

"Alright."

Sherlock climbed up to John. They held each other as they slept. Naked and wrapped in a come-stained duvet, they clung to each other like triumphant moss on stones.

 

________________________________________________________

A few days later, Sherlock had exhausted everything there was to do in the villa (save for one thing, one lovely thing, which was making John's face do _that_ again) and John had exhausted everything there was to do in Es Cubells. They'd taken to going for swims in the afternoon after exploring the rocky cliffside (with reasonable but limited risk-taking, much to Sherlock's falsely exaggerated chagrin) and now Sherlock was sat, trying out a t-shirt and swimming shorts, on the villa's stretch of beach access. He dug his toes into white sand and watched a little crab scuttle away into the approaching tide line before looking up to see where John was off swimming near the lip of their private cove, the top of his head bouncing in and out of the waves. John's an expert swimmer, had extensive training in the army, and is remarkably fit considering his recent injuries, _he's not even really swimming, what with his shoulder it's more like bobbing around_ , he reminded himself, but all told Sherlock couldn't ignore the nagging impulse to gather him up and lock the door of the villa and then the bedroom door behind them. 

_ Since when do I care about safety _

_ His? always _

_ Mine?  _

_ Hard to say _

It was nonsense. If John wanted to swim, John would swim. Sherlock would make sure of it. If John wanted Sherlock to do something, well, _most_ things, Sherlock would do them. If John wanted Sherlock...

_ I think he does _

_ Somehow _

He couldn't quite figure why he was feeling rather melancholy. Sherlock stretched out his feet and let the sand drift though the spaces between his toes as he sat alone but comfortable in his chair. It was a beautiful day; the sun hung high behind soft wisps of clouds and a meandering breeze cooled him when the unseasonably warm air became too much. He was wholly English, after all, and suffered from the regrettable affliction of sweating like a buttered pig in the heat. He wore the Belstaff practically year-round for many reasons and one was to counter the mechanisms of his biology. At moment, the great coat was slung over the back of his chair like a formidable beach cape but he couldn't imagine shouldering it on. 

Much too warm. Dreadful having to be somewhere like this all the time.

How John survived Afghanistan, he'll never know.

The thought hit him.

_ How John survived Afghanistan...he survived Afghanistan.  _

_ But what if he wouldn't have done? What if he'd been lost, forever, because of an infection to his bullet wound, or a wrong step into a house or a road, or because he'd risked and then given his life to save another soldier? What if he'd never gone with Mike Stamford over to the lab at Barts because he'd never made it back to London? What if-- _

"Cotton wool or a daydream?" John interrupted, smiling and dripping wet. "Or the plans to build a working Tardis?"

"Hm?" Sherlock blinked.

"I've now twice asked you to hand me that towel." The towel was handed over and scrubbed through salt-strung hair. "Are you feeling alright? You look - well, how you look sometimes." He worked the towel down over his chest and legs, which drew Sherlock's eyes like a magnet.

"How helpful, John. What an astute diagnosis of my appearance." Sherlock reached for the exposed skin over John's hip. "That surgery in Paddington will be utterly lost without you."

"No, I mean. You tosser. No," John laughed but something serious underpinned his gaze as he covered Sherlock's fingers with his own. "You're thinking, and it's about me, and it's not good."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's nothing."

"But I'm right."

"You're right, but it's not not-good in a _bad_ way." Sherlock shuffled his feet in the sand. The movement comforted him and the tiny grains felt warm and nice rushing over his skin. _Tell the truth_. "If you want to know." He cleared his throat and looked down at his legs. _Just tell him the truth._ "I was thinking about never having met you had you been killed in Afghanistan."

John let the towel drop next to Sherlock's feet and then plopped down next to him into his own empty chair. His eyes were soft and kind but concerned. He bit into his bottom lip.

"That's what you're thinking of," he pointed down between them, gesturing, "when we're here together on holiday."

"It's not like I can help it, John--"

"No, no no, I've been thinking too, about, well, you and...and us--"

At _us_ , Sherlock's pulse skittered. Suddenly, the replacement mobile that Mycroft's staff had given Sherlock buzzed to life from its forgotten perch on the armrest of John's chair. 

"Christ."

"Who's that?"

"Who else. Himself," Sherlock rolled his eyes and forced his pulse to slow as he thumbed to answer the call. "Mycroft, to what do I owe the pleasure of your intrusion into our private holiday. Have you set up CCTV from a bird's nest? Don't bother, I've already disarmed--"

"I assume you refer to the holiday I've so graciously provided for you and John," came Mycroft's voice, thinned out but eternally patrician and familiar over the phone, "for which you might care to be remotely thankful, brother mine."

John scratched at the back of his ear, then felt around by his feet for the two beers they'd brought down to the beach from the villa. The glass bottles were dotted with little beads of condensation from being in the sun and John wiped down Sherlock's with a spare flannel before opening it and handing it over.

"I am," Sherlock acquiesced into the phone before he took a sip and grimaced at the warm, bitter taste, then said more seriously, "we both are." John stretched out his legs so his swimming trunks could dry in the heat and let his head bump back against the chair. His eyes closed and Sherlock's pulse calmed. "How's the exile?"

"You know perfectly well I'm at home and working at capacity."

"With an electronic monitor round your ankle. Are your overlords tracking how many trips to the loo in addition to how many trips to the fridge, or just the latter?"

"Neither, little brother, but as ever your humour never fails to impress."

"I do what I can to lighten the mood," Sherlock took another sip of beer and regretted it. "If this is about a case, I'm not taking it." He caught John peeking over at him out of the corner of his eye. "We're far too busy fuc--"

"That's enough to be going on with, thank you." Mycroft interrupted as John smirked and squinted at Sherlock in the afternoon sun as he took a drink of his own beer. "I was merely ringing to check that everything was up to snuff and a pinch above it."

"Quite."

"The villa is suitable?"

"Yes, though John's not so keen on the espresso machine. Bit under his standards. He'd prefer a model worth two years' salary, not one." John kicked him playfully in the shin.

Even Mycroft chuckled. 

________________________________________________________

 

 

Four days later, Sherlock startled awake from an impromptu nap on the sofa to a seemingly empty house. The day had gone dark in the hours whilst Sherlock slept and now a cool wind blew in through the slightly opened glass balcony door. He involuntarily shivered, his skin prickling up under his thin t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. John wasn't next to him anymore. Curled up like a cat in the oversized and overstuffed armchair, he'd been a sentinel for Sherlock cycling through sleep for the past week. _You need to rest_ , he'd kept saying, to which Sherlock had always frowned petulantly and then immediately followed suit. But now, John was guard no longer. John was gone. The John-shaped and John-sized depression in the seat of the armchair was cold.

A million thoughts burst into his brain at once.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. 

_ Outside  _

_ Balcony _

_ Mycroft _

_ Kidnapping  _

_ Inside _

_ Security _

_ Car _

_ Swim _

_ Drown _

_ NO _

_ Listen _

_ Listen _

_ Listen _

_ LISTEN _

The faint sound of water running...no, more like a spray against tile. The subtle heavy silence of steam rising and fogging up glass.

A jolt of a run across the sitting room, down the corridor and through the bedroom with his heart in his throat, then two brief knocks and Sherlock opened the door after the muffled "come in." He walked a few steps into the room and stopped.

"How'd you know I was in here, the loo's on the other side of the--forget I said that. Stupid."

"You're not." Sherlock could barely make out John's shape, blurred as he was behind the glass door of the extra large and beautifully tiled shower. The floor to ceiling window across the room overlooking the cove was fully steamed over. John sat on the floor, a beige blob against the stark white with legs crossed in front of him, water running in rivers over his head and shoulders. His voice had sounded rough, which was wrong. Something was wrong. "You're not," Sherlock repeated. "You're not, John. You're never." He reached for the neckline of his t-shirt and pulled it up and over his head. "You're not," he murmured again as he thumbed into the waistband of his bottoms and shimmied them down over his hips, then thighs, letting them drop round his ankles. "Do you..." he started, hands at his sides.

The blurred John moved his head in what looked like a nod but said nothing.

Sherlock slowly eased open the shower door and climbed in foot over foot. He sat himself down next to the wall facing John and let his head rest against the cool tiles. More steam than water attacked his curls and he shivered again. John stared at his own hands collecting little pools of water in his lap and Sherlock waited until he couldn't. 

"Seems we've been here before."

"Haven't we." John looked up at Sherlock for the first time since he'd entered the shower and offered a half-smile. He uncupped his hands and let the pools wash away. 

"Hm." Sherlock returned it with one of his own.

_ What's wrong _

They sat together soaking wet in silence for several minutes. Not touching, not talking until John cleared his throat rather forcefully as he studied a freckle near the bridge of his right foot and scrapped at it with a fingernail.

"I just came in for a shower, and then."

_ And then  _ was where Sherlock had learned to read John's in-between spaces. Or, at least, tried.

Sherlock let the moment simmer. John stared forcefully at the rivers between them and paused, carefully, before, "She thought I'd want a daughter."

"Seems so."

"That I wanted to be a dad."

"She thought you'd stay."

"I would've...tried to, but those are two different things."

"Hm." Sherlock had never considered fatherhood. It hadn't been plausible for him. As for _staying_ , once he'd dismissed it in favour of something he'd thought was far more important, and now it was all he could think about.

They fell into silence again. The water sprayed on John and ran off his skin and Sherlock watched the drops bead together into chains that changed routes with every tiny fluctuation of muscle movement. He watched the slow rise and fall of John's chest. John wasn't panicking or worrying, Sherlock noticed; he didn't even seem all that upset. He was simply thinking and trusting Sherlock to let him think, uninterrupted.

"What if I could've had a daughter?" John rubbed at his knee, eyes averted. 

"You still can," Sherlock heard himself saying.

"I don't know."

"If you want to...have that, I think you should."

"I guess I thought--I mean, I want," John cleared his throat again and looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes, this time readjusting his legs so that one bumped up against Sherlock's, "I want to do what you...want...to do."

The words came out slowly and set Sherlock's heart racing again. Something must have shown on his face because John rushed, "I'm not saying--I don't mean we should be--parents, or anything--together--I mean. The thing is, when I think about the future, it's, you're there. It's you." He reached for Sherlock's hand and tucked his fingers into the cup of Sherlock's palm. 

Their fingers hooked together like a hinge. 

Sherlock blinked. "John." He scooted closer and felt the warm water change angles on his back and his neck.

Wait, not change angles but--

"Bollocks the hot water's gone totally out--" and they scrambled out of the shower before Sherlock could say anything else.

*****

Sufficiently towel-dried and wrapped in thick cotton dressing gowns found stashed away in a cupboard in the second bedroom, they stepped outside onto the balcony. The moon sat round and bright in an ink-dark sky and cast planes of light over the villa, dressing it in an otherworldly glow. No wind, or barely a breeze. It was cold but calm and John sighed as he leaned against the railing.

Behind him, Sherlock reached into his pocket. 

"I brought these, in case." Suddenly anxious, his tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth.

John turned and squinted into Sherlock's hand.

"I realise...you probably didn't know I kept them."

The 50p coin glinted in the moonlight, the surface bright save for the dark and empty hole in the middle. The clothing tag, snipped from an oatmeal-coloured jumper, had started to fray at the bottom edge and was so worn that the printed words were nearly invisible. And last, a folded slip of paper from a long-eaten fortune cookie tucked in-between the two.

John made a barely audible noise.

"Anyway, I thought." Sherlock let his voice drop off.

_ This was a mistake _

_ Stupid _

_ You're only bringing up hurt _

In an instant, John grabbed the coin out from Sherlock's outstretched hand and turned, his dressing gown swirling behind him as he hurried off the balcony and disappeared around the side of the villa.

_ Wait _

"John!" Sherlock let the other tokens drop onto the sofa and rushed after him. "John!"

He skittered around the small barrier separating the side of the villa from the long set of steps down to the private beachfront. He could clearly see John jumping off from the bottom and then running across the long stretch of sand down to the water's edge.

"John!" Nearly tripping over his own feet, Sherlock lunged himself down the side of the cliff and raced after him. His voice lost in the air, he watched John's shoulders shift back and forth as he ran ahead. The distance between them stretched and Sherlock gave up on yelling in favour of running.

Silhouetted against the sea, John finally stopped just at the tideline, then waded a metre or so into the water with his fist clenched around the coin. Once Sherlock reached him, he raised his arm and looked over. Sherlock couldn't read John's face, and then: he could.

They nodded at each other.

The coin arched into the air and slipped beneath the water without so much as a sound. It was like telling a secret for the first time.

 

________________________________________________________

During the weekend of week two, John had suggested they go back into Ibiza Town for a bit of fun after dinner. Sherlock wasn't sure what exactly he'd meant by "fun" until they'd found themselves outside of a small club unoriginally called Azibi at 01.00 early Saturday morning queuing up to surely be trampled on. ( _That's the name, really, John,_ _really_ , Sherlock'd moaned whilst secretly glad for the chance to dance.) It was the off season, but Azibi was one of the few clubs already open and thus swarming with eager and drunken lads having a bit of bants. They made it to the entrance just as a crammed disco coach pulled up to the kerb, the fogged windows thrumming with rave music.

"Fancy a ride back on that?" John winked.

"Yes, I'd rather hoped to add some vomit to this Dolce & Gabbana."

John fake-scoffed with a smile, and then handed the bouncer their two tickets. 

The air in the club was hot and dense and muddled with the colognes of tightly packed holidaymakers. Sherlock's shoes clung to floors made sticky from spilt drinks and the bass thudded in his ears in a way that was surprisingly pleasant, and it was all he could do to keep his hands and eyes off of John's hips. Which currently were twitching in time with whatever asinine music had just come over the speaker system. 

"Two...erm, beers, please." Sherlock shouted to the slightly frazzled-looking woman in front of a row of back-lit liquor bottles as he drummed his fingers on the bartop. John, beside him, craned his neck to see the DJ's set-up on a circular dais across the space beyond the large dance floor. Sherlock watched the multicoloured lights scatter over John's features, the way he unconsciously dipped his tongue out to wet his lips. 

"All right?" John noticed him looking. A tuft of hair stuck up just above his nape. Sherlock reached out to smooth it. 

"I'm in love with you."

John grinned. "That makes two of us. Want to dance?"

"That's twenty four euro." The woman held two beers out, impatient. 

"Give them to someone in bad nick," Sherlock shout-mouthed back, pointing over to a corner where a man was just very obviously and publicly dumped and now slumped over his table. "Him." The woman rolled her eyes but Sherlock couldn't see what she did next as John had grabbed his hand and lead him out to the dance floor. 

They wove into the fabric of their fellow dancers, bumping their way through to a small space that seemed to open up for them. They stood there for a moment and each waited for the other to make the first move.

John looked up expectantly at Sherlock. "You taught me to dance, so," he murmured up into Sherlock's ear, "if I cock this up it's on you."

Sherlock responded by wrapping his hands around John's waist before sliding them down to his hips, then again lower. He pressed their thighs and everything that hung between them together.

"You'll be fine," he whispered into John's ear. "It's more like fucking than waltzing."

John's eyes darkened at the comparison.

Hips rocking together with Sherlock's arse pressed up against John, they danced there in the middle of the club for a while, sweaty and content, until John pulled away a bit. 

"I'm gonna ask the DJ to play a proper song," he mouthed up at Sherlock from behind.

"None of these songs have been proper John, I'm not certain they're actually songs."

"No, I mean a slow one." John smiled, sly, before something else passed through his face. "Not a waltz. Just one to dance properly to."

"I don't think you've a chance in hell, but good luck."

And luck was needed, as when John returned a few minutes later looking rather sour, Sherlock knew without asking that his request had been refused. 

"Put your hand on my waist."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock held out his hand. "We'll just have to do it like this."

John obliged him, and grabbed his open hand. Sherlock placed his other one on John's shoulder. 

They danced, grinning like fools and slowly spinning circles to some abysmal house music, surrounded by everyone and no one at all. 

*****

 

John tore the paper off his forehead. "Nancy...who? I can't read that."

"I forget," Sherlock collapsed into giggles on the sofa. " _Actually_ , John." He suppressed a hiccup. "I made it up. I couldn't think of anyone! The _pressure_." In his voice: exasperation and the effects of two thirds of his second glass of three fingers of whisky.

"Typical." John leaned down and gave him a wet kiss with a slip of tongue between Sherlock's lips. 

"Mm, you taste nice."

"I taste like ridiculously expensive alcohol."

"And you. Your taste is the best."

They were trying to play the Rizla game for the second time in their long friendship. The attempt had been marginally successful save for Sherlock's inability to recall which - if any - Nancy he'd scribbled down and John's inability to read clearly without squinting in the meagre light. At least they'd found paper and a biro. They'd abandoned the thundering and smelly squall of Azibi for the quiet comfort of the villa. A round or two of drinks, the door to the balcony opened to let in drifts of salt-fresh night air, a crisp crackling fire on the grate, and Sherlock felt gloriously happy. He couldn't think of anything else he wanted. 

He wanted for nothing. His world was right here.

"What're you doing?" He petted at John's back.

"Trying to look up Nancy Xhtbrso, or whatever that says." John thumbed at the screen of his replacement mobile and laughed. "'Cept my blasted bollocks fuck of a phone isn't working."

Instinctively, Sherlock scooted over so John could flop next to him on the sofa. He landed on top of a massive lavender-coloured silk cushion and groaned. 

"Ah, that's nice."

"A poor carpenter blames his wood, or." Sherlock stifled a burp. "Tools. Something like that."

"Could do with some music." John gently lifted the paper off of Sherlock's forehead and handed it to him. "Here. Not Sherlock Holmes this time."

"No..." Sherlock squinted at the slip of paper but couldn't make out John's writing.

John had already wandered up off the sofa and over to the rather impressive vinyl collection across the room. Sherlock watched him browse the shelves, full of old standards and classical guitar and even The Cure, his shoulders hunched a bit. He rubbed his socked feet mindlessly against the smooth floors as he stood and read through the titles of the records beneath the row of custom-built track spotlighting. It had the effect of making his hair look like spun gold and Sherlock, silent, turned off the lamp beside the sofa to better halo John. 

_ I'm lucky,  _ he thought simply. 

After a few moments John flipped open pristine turntable stored in the speciality built-in cupboards next to the fireplace and delicately placed a record down beneath the needle.

Sherlock's heart leapt to his throat as the song started playing. Even with the sparse guitar, he recognised the melody at once.

"Erm." John turned around and held out his hand, suddenly soft and serious. "I'd like to have a proper go."

"The game, the drinking, dancing..." Sherlock angled up off the sofa and crossed the room to him. He took his waiting hand.

"I want a do-over." John swallowed. "Of that night, I mean. I wish I would've."

"Do you."

"Would've saved a lot."

"But would we be here now, like this?"

"We could've been here _sooner_ , Sherlock."

For the umpteenth time that evening, they started dancing. 

"Sooner isn't now." Sherlock soothed, quiet. "I love now."

Pressed together from chest to thigh, they moved slowly about the room. John proved himself to be quite the dancer; comfortable and confident, he lead them easily with one hand on Sherlock's waist and the other clasped in Sherlock's resting against the front of his shoulder. 

They swayed in silence, listening to the sea, until they were barely moving any longer, just drifting from side to side in the anchor of each other's presence.

When the song finished, John cleared his throat and lifted his chin to look Sherlock in the eye. "I picked that one on purpose."

"I know."

They kissed. They held each other and kissed for several minutes, and as the kiss deepened, Sherlock heard himself make a small noise in the back of his throat to which John involuntarily made one of his own. Sherlock wrapped his hands round John's head, threading his long fingers through soft gold-grey hair. Everything was so much: the smell of John's skin, the comfortable pull of his senses dulled by whiskey, the taste of John in his mouth, the feel of him beneath his hands, the echoes of music and the eternal ease of sea waves. John led them to the sofa until the backs of his knees bumped up against the edge of the cushions and with the help of Sherlock's weight they toppled backwards and down with legs tangled. John reached to pull at Sherlock's shirt as Sherlock tucked his fingers beneath John's at the small of his back. He let out the note of a low, satisfied hum that reverberated between their bodies. 

Suddenly the enormity of the moment - of fumbling together in the dark, of the endlessly new in the familiar - stunned Sherlock into stillness.

"What's wrong?" John kissed at the corner of his mouth, then stopped and pulled up. "Going to be sick?" 

"I want to do this until I die," Sherlock blurted. 

"What...snog like teenagers on the sofa?" John leaned up on his elbows. His look was generous, accommodating, crinkled at the edges. "There are worse ways, I suppose."

"I know it sounds hyperbolic." 

"But."

"What you said before, in the shower. About the future." 

"Yeah..."

"You're there, too. Whatever you want, I want." Sherlock shoved a cushion out of the way and let it drop onto the floor beside them. "Rationally, I know all things end, but I just cannot...fathom..."

"I know."

He sat up a bit, back onto his own elbows and John rolled onto his side, lax between Sherlock's long warm body and the back of the sofa. Sherlock considered preparing his words but thought it better to just go on with it. He drew in a breath and let it go. "After you knocked me out and tossed us off the boat--I mean, when we were in the Thames and trying not to drown, I regained consciousness when we were still underwater and I went into my mind palace and you were there, in my room where I...think about things."

"You imagined me with you?"

"And you kept telling me not to breathe, to wait until you said it was safe." Sherlock, in his newly acquired boldness, charged on. "First you were a little boy, then in the army, then when I met you, then now, then old. I could see the water on the walls but it was dusty. I didn't try to imagine it, you just... were there."

A briefly recognisable but carefully guarded flash of confusion coloured John's face momentarily. "Oh, okay."

"And the thing is every time I saw you, you wanted me to wait for you." He studied John's lips, the way his eyes widened in the darkness. A glimmer of light shone in from the window and backlit the tips of John's ears. "And you convinced me by saying..." He paused for a moment.

"By saying what, Sherlock." John, patient.

"You said you wanted to grow old with me."

The corner of John's mouth quirked.

"Well yes I thought of it, it's not like it was _you_ , obviously--" Sherlock felt a vice wind round his ribs. His pulse fluttered. He felt like he was at the edge of the roof again, staring into an abyss with John at the bottom, but he could see the landing this time; he could see the end of wondering what it would feel like to fall. John was staring at him, waiting. He swallowed. "But the memory palace is merely a technique: it holds memories, information, it doesn't...I didn't expect you to...say...that."

"But I did."

"Because I wanted you to. I wanted it to be true." He studied John's face.

"It _is_ true." John moved to rest an open palm over Sherlock's chest.

"And I'm sorry, John," his words kept coming, tumbling from his lips, "because I've wasted time trying to define this, but the thing is," he felt at the same time completely sober and completely drunk and more high than he'd ever been and he'd never known what it was to think _this clearly_ , to know this _exactly_ what he wanted, "I want you. I want you around at the end, and well, now, and between those two. I want it to be you, I want to be with you. Forever, ideally." 

The world was a pinpoint, the world was John's response.

"I'll be holding you to it," John rubbed over Sherlock's heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an old sop for that song. 
> 
> Also the scene where Mike Stamford meets John was filmed in Russell Square...which, as you may know, is just beside the British Museum. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! One chapter left.


	20. should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Ritual to Read to Each Other
> 
> If you don't know the kind of person I am  
> and I don't know the kind of person you are  
> a pattern that others made may prevail in the world  
> and following the wrong god home we may miss our star. 
> 
> For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,  
> a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break  
> sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood  
> storming out to play through the broken dyke. 
> 
> And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,  
> but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,  
> I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty  
> to know what occurs but not recognize the fact. 
> 
> And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,  
> a remote important region in all who talk:  
> though we could fool each other, we should consider--  
> lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark. 
> 
> For it is important that awake people be awake,  
> or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;  
> the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--  
> should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
> 
> -William Stafford

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is Violin Sonata in G Major, Op. 27, No. 5: I. L'Aurore: Lento assai, played by Tianwa Yang.
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to the full playlist on Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/_weeesi/playlist/2CJKA3wVW6cMLO4qmud2eA)  
> [Listen to this chapter's song on YouTube](https://youtu.be/X3m2deQxi0M)

 

** NINE MONTHS LATER **

 

"Care to take us through it, Sherlock?" Lestrade tugged his grey wool scarf up to his ears. 

"No, I don't _care_ to," Sherlock quipped, "but I will, seeing as your team's detection work is inept as usual and Crowley is otherwise indisposed." 

Lestrade widened his stance and folded his arms across his chest. "Let's have it."

The aforementioned was sat at John's feet: bleeding from his chin, handcuffed, and scowling. Rufus Crowley, a notable car thief who had been wanted by the Met for several months for a series of break-ins in Bayswater, had made one clever mistake on this particular evening which had led to his downfall, quite literally. Now with a (likely) broken jaw after a slip on some ice - which had helped John and Lestrade to overtake and cuff him - Crowley couldn't speak without excruciating pain. Medics' sirens whirred in the distance. 

Sherlock tallied. "Artesian Road. Westbourne Gardens. Leinster Square. Durham Terrace. Leinster Square, again. Alexander Mews. Newton Road. Gloucester Gardens. Sutherland Place. Wellington Close, then Northumberland Place, which leads us to..."

"Elsie Lane Court." John knew his cue for the punchline, which was a rather discreet address just close enough to the A40 Westway that if he closed his eyes and listened all he could hear was the the late night traffic. They were huddled under some trees and beside some bins outside along Westbourne Park Villas. No snow, but the wind was wet and cold and harassed the collar of his coat. He pulled it closer round his neck.

"You've a thief who's suddenly moved from hotwiring cars to stealing upmarket custom stereos just in time for the holidays. One look at him and it's obvious. Of course he would be burgling _here_ of all places tonight." Sherlock paused for dramatic effect. "He had to finish his Scottish granddad's favourite song."

Lestrade snorted. "Oh c'mon, how'd you work that out." 

Stood in the shadow of the building, John could barely see Sherlock's twitch of preparation for the deduction, but he didn't need to see it, he could feel it: the energy shift, the spark in Sherlock's eyes, the tick of that big, beautiful brain. He loved it. He would never tire of it. Ever.

"Simple. Look at his tattoo," Sherlock rallied, pointing to Crowley's ink on the side of his neck. "A fireball."

"So."

"A fireball with a _chain_." Sherlock added, indignant. "Traditional design, skilfully rendered by an artist in Hackney. Relatively new tattoo, recent within five years. What happened within the last five years? The death of his granddad." Sherlock pointed. "Beneath the chain? Small inscription reads 'R.B.C. 1930-2013. For old times. 31.12'. Ten quid says Robert Burns Crowley, after the poet. Rufus would help him make fireballs then watch him parade up and down Stonehaven's High Street for Hogmanay, with a pint and a lesson in carjacking after."

_ Brilliant _ , John thought. _Bloody brilliant_.

"And all together now: what's the tune on Hogmanay?" Sherlock whistled the melody, eyebrows raised, triumphant. 

"Yeah...'course it is," Lestrade stared blankly.

"The first letters of the street names, Greg," John chimed in. "A-W-L-D-L-A-N-G-S-W-N-E."

"Elsie Lane Court...'For old times' is Auld Lang...The Ws." Lestrade sniffed, hard, searching for something to say that wouldn't give him up. "That's what's done it." He looked down at Crowley with a crooked smile. "Kind of a nice sentiment, innit. A tribute to your granddad."

Crowley grunted at John's feet. He looked miserable.

"The tattoo was ridiculously easy to spot on the CCTV. A nursery school student could've solved it. This barely registered as a four, Lestrade," Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket, glanced at the screen, and shoved it back into the depths of the Belstaff just as the medics pulled up alongside their small party. "Consider it a tardy Christmas present from John and I--"

"Agh!" Whilst Sherlock spoke Crowley had tried to roll onto his side in order to slither away unnoticed but in an instant John roughly caught him up behind an elbow and underneath an armpit to hold him still. They tussled for a moment, but John was stronger and Crowley didn't have much fight left in him.

John crouched down in front of the man, careful of his bleeding face. "Hey. Do right by your granddad's memory, yeah? You know he'd want more for you." Crowley grimaced but said nothing as John released him into the arms of a waiting police officer, who helped John get Crowley on his feet and over to the ambulance. He watched them assess and treat the wound, then pack up and ship off to A&E. John stood for a moment, considering. Sometimes he missed the thrill of emergency medicine and the kick in his blood, the rush he got from being tasked with making life or death decisions for people he loved or people he barely knew, the uncompromising demands of the battlefield--

_ What's there to miss _ , he interrupted his own stream of thought, _I still see the battlefield every day_. John smiled to himself and raised his arms, stretching out the well-healed scars in each of his shoulders. _Wouldn't want it any other way._

He hummed at himself, content, and walked back over to Sherlock and Lestrade, who seemed to be trying to out-barter each other. 

"And if I wish to avail myself of your services?"

"Then sixes, at least. Sevens preferably." Sherlock again pulled out his phone and checked it, then tossed it back into his pocket. "John's been picking up random shifts and had to miss one yesterday." 

John cleared his throat and came to a stop next to Sherlock.

"Then let him fob off responsibility on you, how many years did you work alone--"

"It's both of us or nothing, Lestrade." Sherlock held out his hand.

"Fair enough," Lestrade shook on it, then offered his own to John. "You two got plans for the rest of the evening?" He shuffled his feet and patted his pockets for the keys to his unmarked. "Didn't really get to celebrate, I suppose."

John shrugged. "Back to Baker Street?" He glanced over at Sherlock, who quirked the corner of his mouth in reply. The skin high on his cheekbones was rose-coloured from the chill in the air and for the billionth time John's heart gave a little skip. "How 'bout you?"

Now it was Lestrade's turn to colour as he looked from John to Sherlock. "Erm, your brother's having a bit of a 'do, actually," but he didn't look embarrassed so much as a good kind of anxious. 

Sherlock laughed. "Preposterous. Mycroft, willingly entertain? He'd rather prance up Whitehall in polka-dotted pants."

John snorted. 

"He said it's supposed to be rather... intimate," Lestrade fumbled. "Anyway. I best be off. Paperwork tomorrow, you two." He thumbed at the key fob to unlock the car and started off before calling over a shoulder with a grin, "Happy New Year, chaps. To old acquaintances and all that." He climbed in the car and was gone.

"Happy New Year," Sherlock called, too late for Lestrade to hear him. 

"And all that," John murmured. _He's got a skip in his step, what's that about--_

"Chip shop?" Sherlock, bright, turned to him. "There's a terrific place in Marylebone stays open until 10.30."

"Thought you'd never ask."

"Cab?"

"Walk?"

"Alright."

They started to head back from Bayswater to Baker Street, about a forty minute walk. Thirty, with Sherlock's shortcuts.

"What d'you think will happen to him? Crowley, I mean." John asked a few minutes in, breaking the silence.

"Same as happens to all of us," Sherlock opined, mock-serious. "The unknown."

John laughed. "But seriously he was what, all of twenty-four? That's not long to be going down the wrong road."

Sherlock turned to him. "Yes, but he's the rest of his life to change it."

"Suppose so." John considered how long he had waited to change the rest of _his_ life. Perhaps Rufus wasn't so badly off after all.

Twenty minutes in they stopped at a chippy for takeaway. Tied-on bells jangled on the door handle as Sherlock pulled it open for him. The potent smell of frying grease made John's eyes run and his mouth water as they stood along the counter smeared with smatterings of malt vinegar and salt in the short queue beneath chic lights. Sherlock hummed a tune absentmindedly to himself as he fiddled with a loose thread on the sleeve of John's jacket. 

"Your birthday's coming up," John ventured over the din of the small shop.

"Is it," Sherlock blinked out of his reverie. "Hm."

"Want to do...anything special?"

"Might do." Sherlock answered noncommittally, his eyes travelling from the fried bits on display and coming to rest on John's face. It was like being stuck under a pin. "Birthdays don't matter to me," he murmured against the lip of the Belstaff's collar.

"What matters to you, then?" John joked. "Catching killers? Rare Australian...waterbeetles? Is that a thing--" They moved up closer in the queue.

"You." Sherlock turned to place their order and then paid without a pause.

After a few moments they scooted down the counter and then shuffled back outside with two orders of fish and extra portions of chips that sent steam through gaps in the carrier bag. Stood there for a moment, John darted his tongue out to lick his lips, which of course drew Sherlock's gaze. He placed a hand on Sherlock's arm and gently squeezed. "What's with you tonight? The case is solved, we've got takeaway, everything's fine but you've got a face on."

Again, Sherlock pulled his mobile out and flashed the screen momentarily at John before shoving it away. "I've been waiting for a parcel to be delivered to the flat but it's not arrived yet and I need it to be delivered in the next...hour and forty-one minutes. I _need_ it. I need it, John. Need it."

John tried not to feel irritated. "Pressing case, is it?" He turned and started to trot down the pavement, Sherlock trailing behind him. "Really thought you might take the rest of the night off. It's New Year's Eve after all--" He stopped in his tracks. 

"--and there are no Australian waterbeetles involved, I promise. That was just the once--" Sherlock stopped too. "John?"

"A year ago."

They shared a moment of silence, almost awkward.

"Tonight. Yes."

"Christ."

"A lot's happened since then."

"Quite a lot." John cleared his throat rather forcefully. There was too much to say, suddenly, and the icy wind reminded him they still had ten minutes at its mercy back to Baker Street. "Quite a lot indeed." He stayed on the spot, a statute in the centre of the pavement. He watched Sherlock read him, eyes tracing John's frame and judging the right thing to say or do. 

"Chips are getting cold," Sherlock tried tentatively. 

_ He probably thinks I'm thinking about Mary and Elizabeth _

_ No - Anna and a phantom _

_ I'm not _

"Listen, Sherlock." John shifted the carrier bag - the inside now damp with trapped steam - over to his other hand so he could tuck the empty one into Sherlock's. "It's over. All...that...is over. For me tonight just marks another year passed with you. That's all."

Sherlock nodded, and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of John's mouth.

They shared a smile.

"All right?"

"Yeah."

After a moment they turned and continued walking, John with the carrier bag, Sherlock dipping his phone in and out of his pocket every minute or so to check for his delivery notification, and finally made the familiar turn up Baker Street, escaping the wind.

John shifted the bag to reach for the keys to the flat. "What shall I call the case for the blog?"

"A Tribute to 'Old Times' Leads to New Time in Prison for a Would-Be Carol Singer."

"Erm...good start," John unlocked the door and led Sherlock inside. 

"Devotion to Granddad Devotes Grandson to _Auld Lyne Syne_ Stealing Spree."

"Usually I go for "The" something."

"Sing a Song of Sixpence for the Begone Bayswater Bludgeoning Batterer."

"Now you're just alliterating." 

"You could stand to spice things up a bit," Sherlock winked.

They thudded up the stairs. John had thought to call at Mrs. Hudson's but her door was shut tight. 

"She's at Louise's from bridge. Kasbah Nights, purple dress, caramel fig biscuits," Sherlock pushed open the door to 221B. "The flat smelled of them all day, wretched abominations..." with a face of distaste. John laughed.

Sherlock tugged off the Belstaff and his scarf as John contemplated the combination of caramel and fig and set out the takeaway on the table in the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson had thought to pop up earlier with some mulled wine and other goodies, which were carefully arranged on the worktop in order of Sherlock's preferences to John's. He smiled. They were lucky to have her.

John watched Sherlock artfully start a fire on the grate, watched the lines of his back shift as he rummaged in the kitchen for a half-empty jar of Coleman's, watched him dip out the tip of his tongue to taste a drop of mulled wine off his finger then hum thoughtfully at the flavours after pouring them each a glass.

"What's left to say to you," John heard himself say instead of "ta" when Sherlock came over and handed him his. They sat across from each other, Sherlock perched like a strange exotic bird on the edge of his chair, waiting for John to continue. "I feel like I've said 'I love you' in every possible way but it's never enough. There aren't the right words," he felt like a soppy old man, his eyes a bit misty, "I mean, just watching you get the mustard now, I thought, _christ_ , I'm the luckiest bastard..." He laughed a little and palmed at the corner of one eye.

Sherlock smiled, the smile that he gave only ever to John. "Me too."

He reached for him and they held hands - John's right in Sherlock's left - and said the things that English would only cheapen. The fire burned as they ate slightly-soggy fish and chips and listened to the muffled revelries down on Baker Street and neither of them could even imagine the option of being anywhere else with anyone else.

"I liked your titles," John sniffed, "I'll use one--"

Sherlock's phone screen glowed from its spot on John's chair. In an instant, he was on his feet and dashed to the door with a "Sorry hold that thought!" over his shoulder then skittered down the seventeen steps to the front hall. John heard him shout thank yous at a hapless delivery person and he took the opportunity to steal a chip off Sherlock's plate. A chorus of bare feet back up the steps and a wild-eyed and wild-haired Sherlock strode into the room, a thin parcel tucked under an arm. 

"Hope it was worth waiting for," John swallowed a mouthful of wine and winced at the taste. Mulled wine and cold fish and soggy chips - not the worst combination, but not a great one.

"John. Stop what you're doing immediately." Sherlock ripped open the parcel and pulled out what looked like a spiral bound manuscript, which he jostled into place on his music stand. He felt around for his violin beneath a stack of envelopes and the remnants of an experiment that had something to do with the effects of newspaper ink on goat hair (or so John surmised). "Stupid I didn't memorise it. Otherwise I could've done it earlier."

John pushed away their plates and took his glass over to his chair, plopped himself down. "Done what earlier."

"This."

And then Sherlock played three long notes that sounded like a sunrise. 

John listened as Sherlock played their history together. 

The beginning, the meeting at Barts.

The beginning, with stops and starts, hints at something more that quickly spun away, anxious.

A solid pattern that was somehow fraught with subtle changes; a pattern John could follow until he realised the end had turned out differently than the start. Sherlock bowed and plucked the strings and told John a story.

He heard echoes of a secret code, of a swimming pool, of a previous New Year's fraught with uncertainty and hope, of a night spent wondering and wandering side by side on a moor.

He heard Sherlock fall, zigzagging notes that dizzied him; he heard himself, stood at the bottom, afraid.

He heard their absence from each other, and he heard their reunion.

He heard the stag night, and dancing lessons, and a handshake on a tarmac with his heart in his throat.

He heard another absence. 

And he heard another reunion.

John listened as the music swelled, the arpeggios coming faster and faster as Sherlock swayed back and forth with the tempo and played through the last year. The pool. The trial. The marina. Ibiza. The nine months back at home. 

Then the final minute. 

Raptured, John watched Sherlock pour his heart into his violin, into the music that he'd written for John, for them both. The music surged and Sherlock bowed with pure emotion; his fingers pressed sure and deliberate against the strings and then he said things to John that John couldn't have explained if he tried. It was more than devotion or love, more than explanations or reassurances. It was as John had said: a thing beyond words.

Sherlock dipped and moved with the music and bowed faster, the lyric overtaking him as he ended the piece on a high note, triumphant, fringe askew on his forehead and lit by the glow of the fire and John's admiration, with the violin tucked under his chin and a vulnerable look on his face.

"Fantastic." John let the tear fall free onto his cheek.

"You thought so?"

"It's the best thing you've ever written." John set his forgotten wine glass down and pushed up and out of his chair. He crossed over to Sherlock, who set the violin down dangerously close to a cold plate of half-eaten fish and flipped the music back over to its cover. "What's it called?" he asked but he saw the answer on the page before Sherlock could speak. There was a dedication below the title in beautifully printed script. 

_ Our Mutual Life _

_ Sonata in G Major for Solo Violin _

__

_ For my husband John: _

_ to growing old. _

_ Yours, _

_ Sherlock _

"Thank you," John wrapped Sherlock into his arms. "It's perfect."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest, most ambitious thing I've ever written. It took me two years to finish and more often than not I felt like quitting. But somehow I didn't quit writing, and somehow you didn't quit reading, and now we're here together. Thank you for that.
> 
> Also, the real title of the piece Sherlock wrote and played for John - the chapter's song - can be loosely translated to something like "The Very Slow Dawn," which seemed fitting. The title I gave it, "Our Mutual Life," is a line from the poem "A Ritual to Read to Each Other" by William Stafford.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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